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5 


HYPERION 

A ROMANCE 


BY 


HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 

\ 


REVISED EDITION 


“ Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely 
improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Futuro 
without fear, and with a manly heart.” 


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BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 
New York: 85 Fifth Avenue 

Cambribge 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the years 1857 and 1869, by 
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, 
the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts 


5^1 


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c<. A 


T)u Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A 
Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 


CONTENTS 


♦ 



BOOK I. 


Chapter 

Page 

I. 

The Hero ...... 

7 

II. 

The Christ of Andernach . 

. . 12 

III. 

Homunculus 

. 24 

IV. 

The Landlady’s Daughter . 

31 

V. 

Jean Paul, the Only-One . 

• • 37 

VI. 

Heidelberg and the Baron . 

49 

VII. 

Lives of Scholars 

. . 58 

VIII. 

Literary Fame .... 

72 


BOOK II. 

1 . Spring . . . 91 


II. A Colloquy 95 

III. Owl-Towers loi 

IV. A Beer-Scandal iii 

V. The White Lady’s Slipper and the Pas^ 

sion-Flower 122 

VI. Glimpses into Cloud-Land . . . 128 

VII. Mill-Wheels and other Wheels , . 148 

VIII. Goethe 160 


IV 


Contents 


IX. The Daylight of the Dwarfs, and the 


Falling Star 169 

X. The Parting 183 

BOOK III. 

1 . Summer-Time 195 

II. Foot-Travelling 201 

III. Interlachen 21 1 


IV. The Evening and the Morning Star . 222 

V. A Rainy Day 230 

VL After Dinner, and after the Manner of 

THE Best Critics 247 

VII. Take Care 260 

VIII. The Fountain of Oblivion . , . I 267 

IX. A Talk on the Stairs .... 280 


BOOK IV. 

I. A Miserere 291 

II. Curfew Bells 298 

III. Shadows on the Wall . . . *311 

IV. Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler 325 

V. Saint Gilgen 337 

VI. Saint Wolfgang 346 

VII. The Story of Brother Bernardus . . 360 

VIII. Footprints of Angels . . . . 373 

IX. The Last Pang 382 


% 


HYPERION 

A ROMANCE 


“ Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. V/Isely 
improve the Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy Future, 
without fear, and with a manly heart.” 




BOOK THE FIRST 


CHAPTER I. 

The Hero 

I N John Lyly’s “Endymion,” Sir Topas is 
made to say : “ Dost thou know what a 
poet is? Why, fool, a poet is as much as 
one should say, — a poet ! ” And thou, reader, 
dost thou know what a hero is ? Why, a hero 
is as much as one should say, — a hero ! Some 
romance-writers, however, say much more than 
this. Nay, the old Lombard, Matteo Maria 
Bojardo, set all the church-bells in Scandiano 
ringing, merely because he had found a name 
for one of his^ heroes. Here, also, shall church- 
bells be rung, but more solemnly. 

The setting of a great hope is like the set- 
ting of the sun. The brightness- of our life 
is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us, 
and the world seems but a dim reflection, — 
Itself a broader shadow. We look forward 


8 


Hyperion 


into the coming lonely night. The soul with- 
draws into itself. Then stars arise, and the 
night is holy. 

Paul Flemming had experienced this, though 
still young. The friend of his youth was dead. 
The bough had broken “under the burden of 
the unripe fruit.” And when, after a season, 
he looked up again from the blindness of his 
sorrow, all things seemed unreal. Like the 
man whose sight had been restored by mira^ 
cle, he beheld men, as trees, walking. His 
household gods were broken. He had no 
home. His sympathies cried aloud from his 
desolate soul, and there came no answer from 
the busy, turbulent world around him. He 
did not willingly give way to grief He strug- 
gled to be cheerful, — to be strong. But he 
could no longer look into the familiar faces 
of his friends. He could no longer live alone, 
where he had lived with her. He went abroad, 
that the sea might be between him and the 
grave. Alas ! between him and his sorrow 
there could be no sea, but that of time. 

He had already passed many months in 
lonely wandering, and was now pursuing his 
way along the Rhine, to the South of Ger-' 
many. He had journeyed the same way be- 


A Romance 


fore^ in brighter days and a brighter season 
of the year, in the May of life and in the 
month of May. He knew the beautiful river 
all by heart, — every rock and ruin, every 
echo, every legend. The ancient castles, grim 
and hoar, that had taken root as it were 
on the cliffs, — they were all his ; for his 
thoughts dwelt in them, and the wind told 
him tales. 

He had passed a sleepless night at Roland- 
seck, and had risen before daybreak. He 
opened the window of the balcony to hear 
the rushing of the Rhine. It was a damp 
December morning ; and clouds were pass- 
ing over the sky, — thin, vapory clouds, whose 
snow-white skirts were often spotted with 
golden tears, which men call stars.” The day 
dawned slowly ; and, in the mingling of day- 
light and starlight, the island and cloister of 
Nonnenwerth made together but one broad, 
dark shadow on the silver breast of the river. 
Beyond, rose the summits of the Siebengebirg. 
Solemn and dark, like a monk, stood the 
Drachenfels, in his hood of mist ; and rear- 
ward extended the curtain of mountains, back 
to the Wolkenburg, — the Castle of Clouds. 

But Flemming thought not of the scen« 


lo Hyperion 

before him. Sorrow unspeakable was upon 
his spirit in that lonely hour ; and, hiding his 
face in his hands, he exclaimed aloud : — 

Spirit of the past ! look not so mournfully 
at me with thy great tearful eyes ! Touch me 
not with thy cold hand ! Breathe not upon 
me with the icy breath of the grave ! Chant 
no more that dirge of sorrow, through the 
long and silent watches of the night ! ” 

Mournful voices from afar seemed to an- 
swer, “Treuenfels ! ” and he remembered how 
others had suffered, and his heart grew still. 

Slowly the landscape brightened. Down 
the rushing, stream came a boat, with its 
white wings spread, and darted like a swallow 
through the narrow pass of God’s-Help. The 
boatmen were singing, — but not the song of 
Roland the Brave, which was heard of old 
by the weeping Hildegund, as she sat within 
the walls of that cloister which now looked 
forth in the pale morning from amid the leaf- 
less linden-trees. The dim traditions of those 
gray old times rose in the traveller’s memory ; 
for the ruined tower of Rolandseck was still 
looking down upon the Kloster Nonnenwerth, 
as if the sound of the funeral bell had changed 
the faithful paladin to stone and he were 


A Romance 


1 1 

w^atching still to see the form of his beloved 
one come forth, not from her cloister, but 
from her grave. Thus the brazen clasps of 
the book of legends were opened, and, on 
the page illuminated by the misty rays of 
the rising sun, he read again the tales of Liba, 
and the mournful bride of Argenfels, and Sieg- 
fried, the mighty slayer of the dragon. Mean- 
while the mists had risen from the Rhine, and 
the whole air was filled with golden vapor, 
through which he beheld the sun, hanging in 
heaven like a drop of blood. Even thus 
shone the sun within him, amid the wintry 
.vapors uprising from the valley of the shadow 
of death, through which flowed the stream of 
his life, — sighing, sighing! 


12 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER II. 

The Christ of Andernach 

AUL FLEMMING resumed his solitary 



-L journey. The morning was still misty, 
but not cold. Across the Rhine the sun came 
wading through the reddish vapors ; and soft 
and silver-white outspread the broad river, 
without a ripple upon its surface, or visible 
motion of the ever-moving current. A little 
vessel, with one loose sail, was riding at an- 
chor, keel to keel with another that lay be- 
neath it, its own apparition, — and all was 
silent, and calm, and beautiful. 

The road was for the most part solitary ; 
for there are few travellers upon the Rhine 
in winter. Peasant-women were at work in 
the vineyards, climbing up the slippery hill- 
sides, like beasts of burden, with large baskets 
upon their backs. And once during the morn- 
ing a band of apprentices, with knapsacks, 
passed by, singing, “The Rhine! the Rhine! 
a blessing on the Rhine ! ” 


A Romance 


13 

O, the pride of the German heart in this 
noble river ! And right it is ; for, of all the 
rivers of this beautiful earth, there is none 
so beautiful as this. There is hardly a league 
of its whole course, from its cradle in the 
snowy Alps to its grave in the sands of Hol- 
land, which boasts not its peculiar charms. 
By heavens ! If I were a German, I would be 
proud of it too ; and of the clustering grapes 
that hang about its temples, as it reels on- 
ward through vineyards in a triumphal march, 
like Bacchus crowned and drunken. 

But I will not attempt to describe the Rhine ; 
it would make this chapter much too long. 
And to do it well, one should write like a 
god ; and his language flow onward royally 
with breaks and dashes, like the waters of that 
royal river, and antique, quaint, and Gothic 
times be reflected in it. Alas ! this even- 
ing mine flows not at all. Flow, then, into 
this smoke-colored goblet, thou blood of the 
Rhine ! out of thy prison-house, — out of 
thy long-necked, tapering flask, in shape 
not unlike a church-spire among thy native 
hills ; and from the crystal belfry loud ring 
the merry tinkling bells, while I drink a 
health to my hero, in whose heart is sad- 


14 Hyperion 

ness, and in whose ears the bells of Ander- 
nach are ringing noon. 

He is threading his way alone through a 
narrow alley, and now up a flight of stone 
steps, and along the city wall, towards that 
old round tower built by the Archbishop 
Frederick of Cologne in the twelfth century. 
It has a romantic interest in his eyes ; for he 
has still in his mind and heart that beautiful 
sketch of Carov^ in which is described a day 
on the tower of Andernach. He finds the 
old keeper and his wife still there ; and the 
old keeper closes the door behind him slowly, 
as of yore, lest he should jam too hard the 
"poor souls in purgatory, whose fate it is to 
suffer in the cracks of doors and hinges. But, 
alas ! alas ! the daughter, the maiden with 
long, dark eyelashes ! she is asleep in her 
little grave, under the linden-trees of Feld- 
kirche, with rosemary in her folded hands ! 

Flemming returned to the hotel disappoint- 
ed. As he passed along the narrow streets, 
he was dreaming of many things ; but mostly 
of the keeper’s daughter, asleep in the church- 
yard of Feldkirche. Suddenly, on turning 
the corner of an ancient, gloomy church, his 
attention was arrested by a little chapel in 


A Romance 


15 


an angle of the wall. It was only a small 
thatched roof, like a bird’s nest ; under which 
stood a rude wooden image of the Saviour 
on the cross. A real crown of thorns was 
upon his head, which was bowed downward, 
as if in the death agony ; and drops of blood 
were falling down his cheeks, and from his 
hands and feet and side. The face was hag- 
gard and ghastly beyond expression, and wore 
a look of unutterable bodily anguish. The 
rude sculptor had given it this, but his art 
could go no further. The sublimity of death 
in a dying Saviour, the expiring God-likeness 
of Jesus of Nazareth, was not there. The 
artist had caught no heavenly inspiration from 
his theme. All was coarse, harsh, and re- 
volting to a sensitive mind ; and Flemming 
turned away with a shudder, as he saw this 
fearful image gazing at him, with its fixed and 
half-shut eyes. 

He soon reached the hotel, but that face 
of agony still haunted him. He could not 
refrain from speaking of it to a very old 
woman, who sat knitting by the window of 
the dining-room, in a high-backed, old-fash- 
ioned arm-chair. I believe she was the inn- 
keeper’s grandmother. At all events, she was 


i6 


Hyperion 


old enough to be so. She took off her owl- 
eyed spectacles, and, as she wiped the glasses 
with her handkerchief, said : — 

“Thou dear Heaven ! Is it possible } Did 
you never hear of the Christ of Andernach ? ” 

Flemming answered in the negative. 

“Thou dear Heaven!” continued the old 
woman. “It is a very wonderful story ; and 
a true one, as every good Christian in Ander- 
nach will tell you. And it all happened be- 
fore the death of my blessed man, four years 
ago ; let me see, — yes, four years ago, come 
Christmas.” 

Here the old woman stopped speaking, but 
went on with her knitting. Other thoughts 
seemed to occupy her mind. She was think- 
ing, no doubt, of her blessed man, as German 
widows call their dead husbands. But Flem- 
ming having expressed an ardent wish to hear 
the wonderful story, she told it, in nearly the 
following words. 

“ There was once a poor old woman in An- 
dernach whose name was Frau Martha, and 
she lived all alone in a house by herself, and 
loved all the Saints and the Blessed Virgin, 
and was as good as an angel, and sold tarts 
down by the Rheinkrahn. But her house was 


A Romance 


17 


very old, and the roof-tiles were broken, and 
she was too poor to get new ones, and the 
rain kept coming in, and no Christian soul in 
Andernach would help her. But the Frau 
Martha was a good woman, and never did 
anybody any harm, but went to mass every 
morning, and sold tarts down by the Rhein- 
krahn. Now one dark, windy night, when all 
the good Christians in Andernach were asleep 
in the feathers, Frau Martha, who lay under 
the roof, heard a great noise over her head, 
and in her chamber, drip ! drip ! drip ! as if 
the rain were dropping down through the 
broken tiles. Dear soul ! and, sure enough, 
it was. And then there was a pounding and 
hammering overhead, as if somebody were at 
work on the roof ; and she thought it was 
Pelz-Nickel tearing the tiles off, because she 
had not been to confession often enough. So 
she began to pray ; and the faster she said 
her Pater-noster and her Ava-Maria, the faster 
Pelz-Nickel pounded and pulled; and drip! 
drip ! drip ! it went all round her in the dark 
chamber, till the poor woman was frightened 
out of her wits, and ran to the window to 
call for help. Then in a moment all was still, 
I— death-still. But she saw a light streaming 


1 8 Hyperion 

through the mist and rain, and a great shadow 
on the house opposite. And then somebody 
came down from the top of her house by a 
ladder, and had a lantern in his hand ; and 
he took the ladder on his shoulder and passed 
down the street. But she could not see clear- 
ly, because the window was streaked with 
rain. And in the morning the old broken 
tiles were found scattered about the street, and 
there were new ones on the roof, and the old 
house has never leaked to this blessed day. 

“As soon as mass was over, Frau Martha 
told the priest what had happened, and he 
said it was not Pelz-Nickel, but, without doubt, 
St. Castor or St. Florian. Then she went to 
the market and told Frau Bridget all about 
it ; and Frau Bridget said, that, two nights 
before, Hans Claus, the cooper, had heard a 
great pounding in his shop, and in the morn- 
ing found new hoops on all his hogsheads ; 
and that a man with a lantern and a ladder 
had been seen riding out of town at midnight 
on a donkey ; and that the same night the 
old windmill, at Kloster St. Thomas, had been 
mended, and the old gate of the churchyard 
at Feldkirche made as good as new, though 
nobody knew how the man got across the 


A Romance 


19 


river. Then Frau Martha went down to the 
Rheinkrahn and told all these stories over 
again ; and the old ferryman of Fahr said 
he could tell something about it ; for, the very 
night that the churchyard-gate was mended, 
he was lying awake in his bed, because he 
could not sleep, and he heard a loud knocking 
at the door, and somebody calling to him to 
get up and set him over the river. And when 
he got up, he saw a man down by the river 
with a lantern and a ladder ; but as he was 
going down to him, the man blew out the 
light, and it was so dark he could not see 
who he was ; and his boat was old and leaky, 
and he was afraid to set him over in the dark ; 
but the man said he must be in Andernach 
that night ; and so he set him over. And 
after they had crossed the river, he watched 
the man, till he came to an image of the 
Holy Virgin, and saw him put the ladder 
against the wall, and go up and light his 
lamp, and then walk along the street. And 
in the morning he found his old boat all 
calked, and tight, and painted red, and he 
could not for his blessed life tell who did 
it, unless it were the man with the lantera 
Dear soul! how strange it was! 


20 


Hyperion 


And so it went on for some time ; and 
whenever the man with the lantern had been 
seen walking through the street at night, so 
sure as the morning came, some work had 
been done for the sake of some good soul ; 
and everybody knew he did it ; and yet no- 
body could find out who he was, nor where 
he lived ; — for, whenever anybody came near 
him, he blew out his light, turned down an- 
other street, and suddenly disappeared, nobody 
could tell how. And some said it was Rii- 
bezahl ; and some, Pelz-Nickel ; and some, St. 
Anthony-on-the-Heath. 

“ Now one stormy night, a poor, sinful crea- 
ture was wandering about the streets, with 
her babe in her arms, and she was hungry, 
and cold, and no soul in Andernach would 
take her in. And when she came to the 
church, where the great crucifix stands, she 
saw no light in the little chapel at the corner ; 
but she sat down on a stone at the foot of the 
cross and began to pray, and prayed till she 
fell asleep, with her poor little babe on her 
bosom. But she did not sleep long ; for a 
bright light shone full in her face ; and when 
she opened her eyes, she saw a pale man, 
with a lantern, standing right before her. He 


A Romance 


21 


was aliHdsi /jaked ; and there was blood upon 
his hands and body, and great tears in his 
beautiful eyes, and his face was like the face 
of the Saviour on the cross. Not a single 
word did he say to the poor woman ; but 
looked at her compassionately, and gave her 
a loaf of bread, and took the little babe in 
his arms, and kissed it. Then the mother 
looked up to the great crucifix, but there was 
no image there ; and she shrieked and fell 
down as if she were dead. And there she 
was found with her child ; and a few days 
after, they both died, and were buried together 
in one grave. And nobody would have be- 
lieved her story, if a woman, who lived at the 
corner, had not gone to the window when 
5he heard the scream, and seen the figure 
hang the lantern up in its place, and then 
set the ladder against the wall, and go up 
and nail itself to the cross. Since that night 
it has never moved again. Ach ! Herr Je ! ” 
Such was the legend of the Christ of An- 
demach, as the old woman in spectacles told 
it to Flemming. It made a painful impres- 
sion on his sick and morbid soul ; and he felt 
now for the first time how great is the power 
of popular superstition. 


2 2 Hyperion 

The post-chaise being already at the door, 
Flemming was soon on the road to Coblentz, 
a town which stands upon the Rhine, at the 
mouth of the Mosel, opposite Ehrenbreitstein. 
It is by no means a long drive from Ander- 
nach to Coblentz ; and the only incident which 
occurred to enliven the way was the appear- 
ance of a fat, red-faced man on horseback, 
trotting slowly towards Andernach. As they 
met, the mad little postilion gave him a friend- 
ly cut with his whip, and broke out into an 
exclamation, which showed he was from Miin- 
ster : — 

Jesmariosp ! my friend ! How is the Man 
in the Kaufhaus ? ” 

Now to any candid mind this would seem a 
fair question enough ; but not so thought the 
red-faced man on horseback ; for he waxed ex- 
ceedingly angry, and replied, as the chaise 
whirled by : — 

“ The devil take you, and your Westphalian 
ham, and pumpernickel ! ” 

Flemming called to his servant, and the ser- 
vant to the postilion, for an explanation of this 
short dialogue ; and the explanation was, that 
on the belfry of the Kaufhaus in Coblentz ij 
a huge head with a brazen helmet and a beard \ 


A Romance 


23 


and whenever the clock strikes, at each stroke 
of the hammer, this giant’s head opens its great 
jaws and smites its teeth together, as if, like 
the brazen head of Friar Bacon, it would say, 
"Time was; Time is; Time is past.” This 
figure is known through all the country round 
about as " The Man in the Kauf haus ” ; and 
when a friend in the country meets a friend 
from Coblentz, instead of saying, "How are 
all the good people in Coblentz ? ” — he says, 
" How is the Man in the Kauf haus ? ” Thus 
the giant has a great part to play in the town. 
And thus ended the first day of Flemming’s 
Rhine-Journey ; and the only good deed he had 
done was to give an alms to a poor beggar 
woman, who lifted up her trembling hands and 
exclaimed : — 

" Thou blessed babe ! * 


24 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER III. 

Homunculus 

A fter all, a journey up the Rhine, in the 
mists and solitude of December, is not so 
unpleasant as the reader may imagine. You 
have the whole road and river to yourself. No- 
body is on the wing ; hardly a single traveller. 
The ruins are the same ; and the river, and 
the outlines of the hills ; and there are few 
living figures in the landscape to wake you 
from your musings, distract your thoughts, and 
cover you with dust. 

Thus likewise thought our traveller, as he 
continued his journey on the morrow. The 
day is overcast, and the clouds threaten rain 
or snow. Why does he stop at the little vil- 
lage of Capellen ? Because, right above him 
on the high cliff, the glorious ruin of Stolzen- 
fels is looking at him with its hollow eyes, and 
beckoning to him with its gigantic finger, as if 
to say, “ Come up hither, and I will tell thee 
an old talc.” Therefore he alights, and goes 


i Romance 


25 


up the narrow village lane, and up the stone 
steps, and up the steep pathway, and throws 
himself into the arms of that ancient ruin, and 
holds his breath, to hear the quick footsteps of 
the falling snow, like the footsteps of angels 
descending upon earth. And that ancient 
ruin speaks to him with its hollow voice, and 
Says : — 

“ Beware of dreams ! Beware of the illusions 
of fancy ! Beware of the solemn deceivings 
of thy vast desires ! Beneath me flows the 
Rhine, and, like the stream of Time, it flows 
amid the ruins of the Past. I see myself 
therein, and I know that I am old. Thou, too, 
shalt be old. Be wise in season. Like the 
stream of thy life runs the stream beneath us. 
Down from the distant Alps, — out into the 
wide world, it bursts away, like a youth from 
the house of his fathers. Broad-breasted and 
strong, and with earnest endeavors, like man- 
hood, it makes itself a way through these 
difficult mountain-passes. And at length, in 
it^ old age, it falters, and its steps are weary 
and slow, and it sinks into the sand, and, 
through its grave, passes into the great ocean, 
which is its eternity. Thus shall it be with 
thee. 


26 


Hyperion 


In ancient times, there dwelt within these 
halls a follower of Jesus of Jerusalem, — an 
Archbishop in the Church of Christ. He gave 
himself up to dreams ; to the illusions of fancy ; 
to the vast desires of the human soul. He 
sought after the impossible. He sought after 
the Elixir of Life, — the Philosopher’s Stone. 
The wealth that should have fed the poor was 
melted in his crucibles. Within these walls 
the Eagle of the clouds sucked the blood of 
the Red Lion, and received the spiritual love 
of the Green Dragon ; but, alas ! was child- 
less. In solitude and utter silence did the dis- 
ciple of the Hermetic Philosophy toil from day 
to day, from night to night. From the place 
where thou standest, he gazed at evening upon 
hills, and vales, and waters spread beneath 
him ; and saw how the setting sun had changed 
them all to gold, by an alchemy more cunning 
than his own. He saw the world beneath his 
feet ; and said in his heart, that he alone was 
wise. Alas ! he read more willingly in the 
book of Paracelsus than in the book of Nature ; 
and, believing that ‘ where reason hath experi- 
ence, iaith hath no mind,’ would fain have made 
unto himself a child, as the Philosopher taught, 
— a poor homunculus, in a glass bottle. And 
he died DOor and childless ! ” 


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2 ^ 


Whether it were worth while to climb the 
Stolzenfels to hear such a homily as this, some 
persons may perhaps doubt. But Paul Flem- 
ming doubted not. He laid the lesson to heart ; 
and it would have saved him many an hour of 
sorrow, if he had learned that lesson better, 
and remembered it longer. 

In ancient times, there stood in the citadel 
of Athens three statues of Minerva. The first 
was of olive-wood, and, according to popular 
tradition, had fallen from heaven. The second 
was of bronze, commemorating the victory of 
Marathon ; and the third of gold 4nd ivory, — 
a great miracle of art, in the age of Pericles. 
And thus in the citadel of Time stands Man 
himself. In childhood, shaped of soft and deli- 
cate wood, just fallen from heaven ; in man- 
hood, a statue of bronze, commemorating 
struggle and victory ; and, lastly, in the ma- 
turity of age, perfectly shaped in gold and 
ivory, — a miracle of art ! 

Flemming had already lived through the 
olive age. He was passing into the age of 
bronze, into his early manhood ; and in his 
hands the flowers of Paradise were changing 
to the sword and shield. 

And this reminds me tha*- 1 have not yet de 


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scribed nry hero. I will do it how, as he stands 
looking down on the glorious landscape ; — 
but in few words. Both in person and charac- 
ter he resembled Harold the Fair-Hair of Nor- 
way, who is described, in the old Icelandic 
Death-Song of Regner Hairy-Breeches, as “the 
young chief so proud of his flowing locks ; he 
who spent his mornings among the young 
maidens ; he who loved to converse with the 
handsome widows.” This was an amiable weak- 
ness ; and it sometimes led him into mischief. 
Imagination was the ruling power of his mind. 
His thoughts were twin-born ; the thought 
itself, and its figurative semblance in the outer 
world. Thus, through the quiet, still waters 
of his soul each image floated double, “ swan 
and shadow.” 

These traits of character, a good heart, and 
a poetic imagination, made his life joyous and 
the world beautiful ; till at length Death cut 
down the sweet blue flower that bloomed be- 
side him, and wounded him with that sharp 
sickle, so that he bowed his head, and would 
fain have been bound up in the same sheaf 
with the sweet blue flower. Then the world 
seemed to him less beautiful, and life became 
earnest. It would have been well, if he could 


A Romance 


29 


have forgotten the past ; that he might not so 
mournfully have lived in it, but might have 
enjoyed and improved the present. But this 
his heart refused to do ; and ever, as he floated 
upon the great sea of life, he looked down 
through the transparent waters, checkered 
with sunshine and shade, into the vast cham- 
bers of the mighty deep in which his happier 
days had sunk, and wherein they were lying 
still visible, like golden sands, and precious 
stones, and pearls ; and, half in despair, half 
in hope, he grasped downward after them 
again, and drew back his hand, filled only 
with sea-weed, and dripping with briny tears ! 
And between him and those golden sands a 
radiant image floated, like the spirit in Dante’s 
Paradise, singing, “ Ave Maria ! ” and while 
it sang, down-sinking, and slowly vanishing 
away. 

In all things he acted more from impulse 
than from fixed principle ; as is the case with 
most young men. Indeed, his principles hard- 
ly had time to take root ; for he pulled them 
all up, every now and then, as children do the 
flowers they have planted, — to see if they are 
growing. Yet there was much in him which 
was good ; for underneath the flowers and 


30 


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greensward of poetry, and the good principles 
which would have taken root had he given 
them time, there lay a strong and healthy 
soil of common sense, — freshened by living 
springs of feeling, and enriched by many 
faded hopes, that had fallen upon it like dead 
leaves. 


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31 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Landlady's Daughter 

“ A LLEZ, Fuchs! allez, lustig!” cried the 
impatient postilion to his horses, in ac- 
cents which, like th6 wild echo of the Lurley 
Felsen, came first from one side of the river 
and then from the other, — that is to say, in 
words alternately French and German. The 
truth is, he was tired of waiting ; and when 
Flemming had at length resumed his seat in 
the post-chaise, the poor horses had to make 
up the time he had lost in dreams on the 
mountain. This is far oftener the case than 
most people imagine. One half of the world 
must sweat and groan, that the other half 
may dream. It would have been a difficult 
task for the traveller or his postilion to per- 
suade the horses that these dreams were all 
for their good. 

The next stopping-place was the little tav- 
ern of the Star, an out-of-the-way corner in 
the town of Salzig. It stands on the banks 


32 


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of the Rhine ; and, directly in front*' of it, 
sheer from the water’s edge, rise the moun- 
tains of Liebenstein and Sternenfels, each 
with its ruined castle. These are the Brothers 
of the old tradition, still gazing at each other 
face to face ; and beneath them, in the val- 
ley, stands a cloister, — meet emblem of that 
orphan child they both so passionately loved. 

In a small flat-bottomed boat did the land- 
lady’s daughter row Flemming “ over the 
Rhine-stream, rapid and roaring wide.” She 
was a beautiful girl of sixteen ; with black hair, 
and dark, lovely eyes, and a face that had a 
story to tell. How different faces are in this 
particular ! Some of them speak not. They 
are books in which not a line is written, save 
perhaps a date. Others are great Family 
Bibles, with both the Old and the New Tes- 
tament written in them. Others are Mother 
Goose and nursery tales ; others, bad trage- 
dies, or pickle-herring farces ; and others, like 
that of the landlady’s daughter at the Star, 
sweet love-anthologies, and songs of the affec- 
tions. It was on that account that Flemming 
said to her, as they glided out into the swift 
stream, “ My dear child ! do you know the 
story of the Liebenstein } ” 


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33 


"The story of the Liebenstein,” she an- 
swered, I knew by heart when I was a little 
child/' 

And here her large, dark, passionate eyes 
looked into Flemming’s, and he doubted not 
that she had learned the story far too soon 
and far too well. That story he longed to 
hear, as if it were unknown to him ; for he 
knew that the girl, who had got it by heart 
when a child, would tell it as it should be told. 
So he begged her to repeat the story, which 
she was but too glad to do ; for she loved and 
believed it, as if it had all been written in the 
Bible. But before she began, she rested a 
moment on her oars, and, taking the crucifix 
which hung suspended from her neck, kissed 
it, and then let it sink down into her bosom, 
as if it were an anchor she was dropping into 
her heart. Meanwhile her moist, dark eyes 
were turned to heaven. Perhaps her soul was 
walking with the souls of Cunizza, and Rahab, 
and Mary Magdalen. Or perhaps she was 
thinking of that nun, of whom St. Gregory 
says, in his Dialogues, that, having gieedily 
eaten a lettuce in a garden without making 
the sign of the cross, she found herself soon 
after possessed with a devil. 


34 


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The probability, however, is, that she was 
looking at the ruined castles only, and not to 
heaven, for she soon began her story, and told 
Flemming how, “ a great, great many years ago, 
an old man lived in the Liebenstein with his 
two sons ; and how both the young men loved 
the Lady Geraldine, an orphan, under their 
father’s care ; and how the elder brother went 
away in despair, and the younger was betrothed 
to the Lady Geraldine ; and how they were as 
happy as Aschenputtel and the Prince. And 
then the holy Saint Bernard came and carried 
away all the young men to the war, just as 
Napoleon did afterwards ; and the young lord 
went to the Holy Land, and the Lady Geral- 
dine sat in her tower and wept, and waited for 
her lover’s return, while the old father built 
the Sternenfels for them to live in when they 
were married. And when it was finished, the 
old man died ; and the elder brother came 
back and lived in the Liebenstein, and took 
care of the gentle lady. Erelong there came 
news from the Holy Land that the war was 
over ; and the heart of the gentle lady beat 
^dth joy, till she heard that her faithless lover 
was coming back with a Greek wife, — the 
wicked man ! — and then she went into a con- 


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35 


vent and became a holy nun. So the young 
lord of Sternenfels came home, and lived in 
his castle in great splendor with the Greek 
woman, who was a wicked woman, and did 
what she ought not to do. But the elder 
brother was angry for the wrong done the 
gentle lady, and challenged the lord of Ster- 
nenfels to single combat. And while they 
were fighting with their great swords in the 
valley of Bornhofen behind the castle, the 
convent bells began to ring, and the Lady 
Geraldine came forth with a train of nuns 
all dressed in white, and made the brothers 
friends again, and told them she was the bride 
of Heaven, and happier in her convent than 
she could have been in the Liebenstein or the 
Sternenfels. And when the brothers returned, 
they found that the false Greek wife had gone 
away with another knight. So they lived to- 
gether in peace, and were never married. And 
when they died ” 

“ Lisbeth ! Lisbeth ! ” cried a sharp voice 
from the shore, Lisbeth ! where are you tak- 
ing the gentleman } ” 

This recalled the poor girl to her senses ; 
and she saw how fast they were floating down 
stream. For, in telling the story, she had for- 


36 


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gotten everything else, and the swift current 
had swept them down to the tall walnut-trees 
of Kamp. They landed in front of the Capu- 
chin monastery. Lisbeth led the way through 
the little village, and, turning to the right, 
pointed up the romantic, lonely valley which 
leads to the Liebenstein, and even offered 
to go with him. But Flemming patted her 
cheek, and shook his head. He went up the 
valley alone. 


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37 


CHAPTER V. 

Jean Paul^ the Only-One 

I T was already night when Flemming crossed 
the Roman bridge over the Nahe, and en- 
tered the town of Bingen. He stopped at 
the White Horse ; and, before going to bed, 
looked out into the dim starlight from his 
window towards the Rhine, and his heart 
leaped within him to behold the bold outline 
of the neighboring hills crested with Gothic 
ruins ; — which in the morning proved to be 
only a high slated roof, with fantastic chim- 
neys. 

The morning was bright and frosty ; and 
the river tinged with gay colors by the rising 
sun. A soft, thin vapor floated in the air. 
In the sunbeams flashed the hoar-frost like 
silver stars ; and through a long avenue of 
trees, whose dripping branches bent and scat- 
tered pearls before him Paul Flemming jour- 
neyed on in triumph. 

The man in the play who wished for “ some 


38 


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forty pounds of lovely beef, placed in a Medi- 
terranean Sea of brewis,” might have seen 
his ample desires almost realized at the table 
d’hote of the Rheinischen Hof, in Mayence, 
where Flemming dined that day. At the 
head of the table sat a gentleman with a 
smooth, broad forehead, and large, intelligent 
eyes. He was from Baireuth in Franconia ; 
and talked about poetry and Jean Paul to 
a pale, romantic-looking lady on his right. 
There was music all dinner-time, at the other 
end of the .hall, — a harp and a horn and a 
voice, — so that a great part of the fat gentle- 
man’s conversation with the pale lady was lost 
to Flemming, who sat opposite to her, and 
could look right into her large, melancholy 
eyes. But what he heard so much interested 
him, — indeed, the very name of the beloved 
Jean Paul would have been enough for this, — 
that he ventured to join in the conversation, 
and asked the German if he had known the 
poet personally. 

Y es, I knew him well,” replied the stran- 
ger. “I am a native of Baireuth, where he 
passed the best years of his life. In my mind, 
the man and the author are closely united. I 
never read a page of his writings without hear- 


A Romance 


39 


ing his voice, and seeing his form before me. 
There he sits, with his majestic, mountain- 
ous forehead, his mild blue eyes, and finely 
cut nose and mouth ; his massive frame clad 
loosely and carelessly in an old green frock, 
from the pockets of which the corners of books 
project, and perhaps the end of a loaf of bread 
and the nose of a bottle ; a straw hat, lined 
with green, lying near him ; a huge walking- 
stick in his hand, and at his feet a white poo- 
dle, with pink eyes, and a string round his 
neck. You would sooner have taken him for 
a master-carpenter than for a poet. Is he a 
favorite author of yours } ” Flemming an- 
swered in the affirmative. 

“ But a foreigner must find it exceedingly 
difficult to understand him,” said the gentle- 
man. It is by no means an easy task for 
us Germans.” 

I have always observed,” replied Flem- 
ming, “that the true understanding and ap- 
preciation of a poet depend more upon indi- 
vidual than upon national character. If there 
be a sympathy between the minds of writer 
and reader, the bounds and barriers of a for- 
eign tongue are soon overleaped. If you once 
understand an author’s character, the compre- 
hension of his writings becomes easy.” 


40 


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** Very true,” replied the German ; ** and the 
character of Richter is too marked to be easily 
misunderstood. Its prominent traits are ten- 
derness and manliness, — qualities which are 
seldom found united in so high a degree as 
in him. Over all he sees, over all he writes, 
are spread the sunbeams of a cheerful spirit, — 
the light of inexhaustible human love. Every 
sound of human joy and of human sorrow 
finds a deej>-resounding echo in his bosom. 
In every man, he loves his humanity only, 
not his superiority. The avowed object of all 
his literary labors was to raise up again the 
down-sunken faith in God, Virtue, and Im- 
mortality ; and, in an egotistical, revolutionary 
age, to warm again our human sympathies, 
which have now grown cold. And not less 
boundless is his love for Nature, — for this 
outward, beautiful world. He embraces it all 
in his arms.” 

“Yes,” answered Flemming, almost taking 
the words out of the stranger’s mouth, “ for 
in his mind all things become idealized. He 
seems to describe himself when he describes 
the hero of his Titan, as a child, rocking in 
a high wind upon the branches of a full-blos- 
somed apple-tree, and as its summit, blown 


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41 


abroad by the wind, now sunk him in deep 
green, and now tossed him aloft in deep blue 
and glancing sunshine, — in his imagination 
stood that tree gigantic ; — it grew alone in 
the universe, as if it were the tree of eternal 
life ; its roots struck down into the abyss ; the 
white and red clouds hung as blossoms upon 
it ; the moon as fruit ; the little stars sparkled 
like dew, and Albano reposed in its measure- 
less summit ; and a storm swayed the summit 
out of Day into Night, and out of Night into 
Day.” 

“Yet the spirit of love,” interrupted the 
Franconian, “was not weakness, but strength. 
It was united in him with gfeat manliness. 
The sword of his spirit had been forged and 
beaten by poverty. Its temper had been tried 
by a thirty years’ war. It was not broken, 
not even blunted, but rather strengthened and 
sharpened, by the blows it gave and received. 
And, possessing this noble spirit of humanity, 
endurance, and self-denial, he made literature 
his profession ; as if he had been divinely com- 
missioned to write. He seems to have cared 
for nothing else, to have thought of nothing 
else, than living quietly and making books. 
He says that he felt it his duty, not to enjoy, 


42 


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nor to acquire, but to write ; and boasted that 
he had made as many books as he had lived 
years.” 

“And what do you Germans consider the 
prominent characteristics of his genius } ” 

“Most undoubtedly, his wild imagination 
and his playfulness. He throws over all 
things a strange and magic coloring. You 
are startled at the boldness and beauty of 
his figures and illustrations, which are scat- 
tered everywhere with a reckless prodigality ; 
multitudinous, like the j^lossoms of early sum- 
mer, and as fragrant and beautiful. With a 
thousand extravagances are mingled ten thou- 
sand beauties of thought and expression, which 
kindle the reader’s imagination, and lead it 
onward in a bold flight, through the glow 
of sunrise and sunset, and the dewy coldness 
and starlight of summer nights. He is diffi- 
cult to understand, — intricate, — strange, — 
drawing his illustrations from every by-corner 
of science, art, and nature, — a comet among 
the bright stars of German literature. When 
you read his works, it is as if you were climb- 
ing a high mountain, in merry company, to 
see the sun rise. At times you are enveloped 
in mist, — the morning wind sweeps by you 


A Romance 


43 


ivith a shout, — you hear the far-off mutter- 
ing thunders. Wide beneath you spreads the 
landscape, — field, meadow, town, and winding 
river. The ringing of distant church-bells, 
or the sound of solemn village clock, reaches 
you ; — then arises the sweet and manifold 
fragrance of flowers, — the birds begin to sing, 
— the vapors roll away, — up comes the glori- 
ous sun, — you revel like a lark in the sun- 
shine and bright blue heaven, and all is a 
delirious dream of soul and sense, — when 
suddenly a friend at your elbow laughs aloud, 
and offers you a piece of Bologna sausage. 
As in real life, so in his writings : the serious 
and the comic, the sublime and the grotesque, 
the pathetic and the ludicrous, are mingled 
together. At times he is sententious, ener- 
getic, simple ; then, again, obscure and diffuse. 
His thoughts are like mummies embalmed 
in spices, and wrapped about with curious 
envelopments ; but within these the thoughts 
themselves are kings. At times glad, beauti- 
ful images, airy forms, move by you, grace- 
ful, harmonious ; — at times the glaring, wild- 
looking fancies, chained together by hyphens, 
brackets, and dashes, brave and base, high and 
low, all in their motley dresses, go sweeping 


44 


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down the dusty page, like the galley-slaves 
that sweep the streets of Rome, where you 
may chance to see the nobleman and the 
peasant manacled together.” 

Flemming smiled at the German’s warmth, 
to which the presence of the lady and the 
Laubenheimer wine seemed each to have 
contributed something, and then said : — 

“ Better an outlaw than not free ! — These 
are his own words. And thus he changes 
at his will. Like the God Thor, of the old 
Northern mythology, he now holds forth the 
seven stars in the bright heaven above us, 
and now hides himself in clouds, and pounds 
away with his great hammer.” 

‘‘And yet this is not affectation in him,” 
rejoined the German. “It is his nature, — 
it is Jean Paul. And the figures and orna- 
ments of his style, wild, fantastic, and ofttimes 
startling, like those in Gothic cathedrals, 
are not merely what they seem, but massive 
coignes and buttresses, which support the 
fabric. Remove them, and the roof and walls 
fall in. And through these gargoyles, these 
wild faces, these images of beasts and men 
carved upon spouts and gutters, flow out, like 
gathered rain, the bright, abundant thoughts 


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45 


that have fallen from heaven. And all he 
does is done with a kind of serious playful- 
ness. He is a sea-monster, disporting him- 
self on the broad ocean ; his very sport is 
earnest ; there is something majestic and seri- 
ous about it. In everything there is strength, 
a rough good-nature, all sunshine overhead, 
and underneath the heavy moaning of the 
sea. Well may he be called ^ Jean Paul, the 
Only-One.’ ” 

With such discourse the hour of dinner 
passed ; and after dinner Flemming went to 
the cathedral. They were singing vespers. 
A beadle, dressed in blue, with a cocked hat, 
and a crimson sash and collar, was strutting, 
like a turkey, along the aisles. This impor- 
tant gentleman conducted Flemming through 
the church, and showed him the choir, with 
its heavy-sculptured stalls of oak, and the 
beautiful figures in brown stone over the bish- 
ops’ tombs. He then led him, by a side-door, 
into the old and ruined cloisters of St. Willigis. 
Through the low Gothic arches the sunshine 
streamed upon the pavement of tombstones, 
whose images and inscriptions are mostly 
effaced by the footsteps of many generations. 
There stands the tomb of Frauenlob, the Min- 


46 


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nesinger. His face is sculptured on an en* 
tablature in the wall ; a fine, strongly-marked, 
and serious countenance. Below it is a bas- 
relief, representing the poet’s funeral. He is 
carried to his grave by ladies, whose praise 
he sang, and thereby won the name of Frau- 
enlob. 

“ This, then,” said Flemming, “ is the grave, 
not of Praise-God Bare-bones, but of Praise- 
the-Ladies Meissen, who wrote songs ^some- 
what of lust, and somewhat of love.’ But 
where sleeps the dust of his rival and foe, 
sweet Master Bartholomew Rainbow ? ” 

He meant this for an aside ; but the tur- 
key-cock picked it up, and answered : — 

“ I do not know. He did not belong to 
this parish.” 

I will not prolong this journey, for I am 
weary and way-worn, and would fain be at 
Heidelberg with my readers and my hero. It 
was already night when he reached the Man- 
heim gate, and drove down the long Haupt- 
strasse so slowly, that it seemed to him end- 
less. The shops were lighted on each side 
of the street, and he saw faces at the windows 
here and there, and figures passing in the 
lamplight, visible for a moment, and then 


A Romance 


47 


swallowed up in the darkness. The thoughts 
that filled his mind were strange ; as are al- 
ways the thoughts of a traveller who enters 
for the first time a strange city. This little 
world had been going on for centuries before 
he came ; and would go on for centuries after 
he was gone. Of all the thousands who inhab- 
ited it, he knew nothing ; and what knew they, 
or thought, of the stranger, who, in that close 
post-chaise, weary with travel, and chilled by 
the evening wind, was slowly rumbling over 
the paved street.^ Truly, this world can go 
on without us, if we would but think so. If it 
had been a hearse instead of a post-chaise, it 
would have been all the same to the people 
of Heidelberg, — though by no means the 
same to Paul Flemming. 

But at the farther end of the city, near the 
Castle and the Carls-Thor, one warm heart 
was waiting to receive him ; and this was the 
German heart of his friend, the Baron of Ho- 
henfels, with whom he was to pass the winter 
in Heidelberg. No sooner had the carriage 
stopped at the iron-grated gate, and the postil- 
ion blown his horn, to announce the arrival of 
a traveller, than the Baron was seen among 
the servants at the door ; and, a few moments 


48 


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afterwards, the two long-absent friends were 
in each other’s arms, and Flemming received 
a kiss upon each cheek, and another on the 
mouth, as a pledge and seal of the German’s 
friendship. They held each other long by the 
hand, and looked into each other’s face, and 
saw themselves in each other’s eyes, both liter- 
ally and figuratively ; literally, inasmuch as 
the images were there ; and figuratively, inas- 
much as each was imagining what the other 
thought of him, after the lapse of some years. 
In friendly hopes and questionings and an- 
swers, the evening glided away at the supper- 
table, where many more things were discussed 
than the roasted hare and the Johannisberger ; 
and they sat late into the night, conversing of 
the thoughts and feelings and delights which 
fill the hearts of young men who have already 
enjoyed and suffered, and hoped and been dis- 
appointed. 


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49 


CHAPTER VI. 

Heidelberg and the Baron. 

H igh and hoar on the forehead of the 
Jettenbiihl stands the Castle of Heidel- 
berg. Behind it rise the oak-crested hills of 
the Geissberg and the Kaiserstuhl : and in 
front, from the wide terrace of masonry, you 
can almost throw a stone upon the roofs of the 
town, so close do they lie beneath. Above 
this terrace rises the broad front of the chapel 
of Saint Udalrich. On the left stands the 
slender octagon tower of the horologe ; and 
on the right, a huge round tower, battered 
and shattered by the mace of war, shores up 
with its broad shoulders the beautiful palace 
and garden-terrace of Elizabeth, wife of the 
Count Palatine Frederick. In the rear are 
older palaces and towers, forming a vast, irreg- 
ular quadrangle ; — Rodolph’s ancient castle, 
with its Gothic gloriette and fantastic gables ; 
the Giant’s Tower, guarding the drawbridge 
over the moat; the Rent Tower, with the 


50 


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linden-trees growing on its summit ; and the 
magnificent Rittersaal of Otho- Henry, Count 
Palatine of the Rhine and Grand Seneschal 
of the Holy Roman Empire. From the gar- 
dens behind the castle, you pass under the 
archway of the Giant’s Tower into the great 
courtyard. The diverse architecture of difi 
ferent ages strikes the eye, and curious sculp- 
tures. In niches on the wall of Saint Udal- 
rich’s chapel stand rows of knights in armor, 
broken and dismembered ; and on the front 
of Otho’s Rittersaal, the heroes of Jewish his- 
tory and classic fable. You enter the open 
and desolate chambers of the ruin ; and on 
every side are medallions and family arms ; 
the Globe of the Empire and the Golden 
Fleece, or the Eagle of the Caesars, resting 
on the escutcheons of Bavaria and the Pala- 
tinate. Over the windows and doorways and 
chimney-pieces are sculptures and mouldings 
of exquisite workmanship ; and the eye is 
bewildered by the profusion of caryatides, and 
arabesques, and rosettes, and fan-like flutings, 
and garlands of fruits and flowers and acorns, 
and bullocks’ heads with draperies of foliage, 
and muzzles of lions, holding rings in their 
teeth. The cunning hand of Art was busy 


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51 


for six centuries in raising and adorning these 
walls ; the mailed hands of Time and War 
have defaced and overthrown them in less 
than two. Next to the Alhambra of Granada, 
the Castle of Heidelberg is the most magnifi- 
cent ruin of the Middle Ages. 

In the valley below flows the rushing stream 
of the Neckar. Close from its margin, on the 
opposite side, rises the Mountain of All-Saints, 
crowned with the ruins of a convent ; and up 
the valley stretches the mountain-curtain of 
the Odenwald. So close and many are the 
hills which eastward shut the valley in, that 
the river seems a lake. But westward it opens 
upon the broad plain of the Rhine, like the 
mouth of a trumpet ; and like the blast of a 
trumpet is at times the wintry wind through 
this narrow mountain-pass. The blue Alsa- 
tian hills rise beyond ; and on a platform or 
strip of level land, between the Neckar and 
the mountains, right under the castle, stands 
the town of Heidelberg ; as the old song says, 
*^a pleasant town, when it has done raining.” 

Something of this did Paul Flemming be^ 
hold, when he rose the next morning and 
looked from his window. It was a warm, 
vapory morning, and a struggle was going 


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on between the mist and the rising sun. The 
sun had taken the hill-tops, but the mist still 
kept possession of the valley and the town. 
The steeple of the great church rose through 
a dense mass of snow-white clouds ; and on 
the hills the dim vapors were rolling across 
the windows of the ruined castle, like the fiery 
smoke of a fierce conflagration. It seemed 
to him an image of the rising of the sun of 
Truth on a benighted world ; its light streamed 
through the ruins of centuries ; and, dowm in 
the Valley of Time, the cross on the Christian 
church caught its rays, though the priests were 
singing in mist and darkness below. 

In the warm breakfast-room he found the 
Baron waiting for him. He was lying upon 
a sofa, in morning gown and purple-velvet 
slippers, both with flowers upon them. He 
had a guitar in his hand, and a pipe in his 
mouth, at the same time smoking, playing, and 
humming his favorite song from Goethe : — 

“ The water rushed, the water swelled, 

A fisher sat thereby.” 

Flemming could hardly refrain from laugh- 
ing at the sight of his friend ; and told him 
it reminded him of a street-musician he once 


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53 


saw in Aix-la-Chapelle, who was piaying upon 
six instruments at once ; having a helmet with 
bells on his head, a Pan’s-reed in his cravat, a 
violin in his hand, a triangle on his knee, cym- 
bals on his heels, and on his back a bass-drum, 
which he played with his elbows. To tell the 
truth, the Baron of Hohenfels was rather a 
miscellaneous youth, rather a universal genius. 
He pursued all things with eagerness, but for a 
short time only : music, poetry, painting, pleas- 
ure, even the study of the Pandects. His feel- 
ings were keenly alive to the enjoyment of life. 
His great defect was, that he was too much 
in love with human nature. But by the power 
of imagination, in him, the bearded goat was 
changed to a bright Capricornus ; — no longer 
an animal on earth, but a constellation in 
heaven. An easy and indolent disposition 
made him gentle and childlike in his man- 
ners ; and, in short, the beauty of his charac- 
ter, like that of the precious opal, was owing 
to a defect in its organization. His person 
was tall and slightly built ; his hair light ; and 
his eyes blue, and as beautiful as those of a 
girl. In the tones of his voice there was 
something indescribably gentle and winning ; 
and he spoke the German language with the 


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soft, musical accent of his native province of 
Kurland. In his manners, if he had not “ An- 
tinoiis’ easy sway,” he had at least an easy 
sway of his own. Such, in few words, was 
the friend of Flemming. 

“ And what do you think of Heidelberg and 
the old castle ? ” said he, as they seated them- 
selves at the breakfast-table. 

“ Last night the town seemed very long to 
me,” replied Flemming ; “ and as to the castle, 
I have as yet had but a glimpse of it through 
the mist. They tell me there is nothing finer 
in its way than this magnificent ruin ; and I 
have no doubt I shall find it so. Only I wish 
the stone were gray, and not red. But, red or 
gray, I foresee that I shall waste many a long 
hour in its desolate halls. Pray, does anybody 
live there now-a-days ? ” 

“Nobody,” answered the Baron, “but the 
man who shows the Heidelberg Tun, and a 
Frenchman, who has been there sketching 
ever since the year eighteen hundred and ten. 
He has, moreover, written a super-magnificent 
description of the ruin, in which he says, that 
during the day only birds of prey disturb it 
with their piercing cries, and at night, screech- 
owls, and other fallow deer. You must bu^ 
his book and his sketches.” 


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55 

'‘Yes, the quotation and the tone of your 
voice will certainly persuade me so to do.” 

Take his or none, my friend, for you will 
find no others. And seriously, his sketches 
are very good. There is one on the wall 
there, which is beautiful, save and except that 
straddle-bug figure among the bushes in the 
corner.” 

“ But is there no ghost, no haunted cham- 
ber in the old castle } ” asked Flemming, after 
casting a hasty glance at the picture. 

“ O, certainly,” replied the Baron ; “ there 
are two. There is the ghost of the Virgin 
Mary in Ruprecht’s Tower, and the Devil 
in the Dungeon.” 

“ Ha ! that is grand ! ” exclaimed Flemming, 
with evident delight. “Tell me the whole 
story, quickly ! I am as curious as a child.” 

“ It is a tale of the times of Louis le De- 
bonnaire,” said the Baron, with a smile ; “ a 
mouldy tradition of a credulous age. His 
brother Frederick lived here in the castle 
with him, and had a flirtation with Leonore 
von Luzelstein, a lady of the court, whom 
he afterwards despised, and was consequently 
most cordially hated by her. From political 
motives, he was equally hateful to certain 


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petty German tyrants, who, in order to effect 
his ruin, accused him of heresy. But his 
brother Louis would not deliver him up to 
their fury, and they resolved to effect by 
stratagem what they could not by intrigue. 
Accordingly, Leonore von Luzelstein, dis- 
guised as the Virgin Mary, and the father 
confessor of the Elector, in the costume of 
Satan, made their appearance in the Elec- 
tor’s bedchamber at midnight, and frightened 
him so horribly, that he consented to deliver 
up his brother into the hands of two Black 
Knights, who pretended to be ambassadors 
from the Vehm-Gericht. They proceeded to- 
gether to Frederick’s chamber ; where, luckily, 
old Gemmingen, a brave soldier, kept guard 
behind the arras. The monk went foremost 
in his Satanic garb ; but no sooner had he 
set foot in the prince’s bedchamber, than the 
brave Gemmingen drew his sword, and said 
quaintly, ‘ Die, wretch ! ’ and so he died. The 
rest took to their heels, and were heard of no 
more. And now the souls of Leonore and the 
monk haunt the scene of their 'midnight crime. 
You will find the story in the Frenchman’s 
book, worked up with a kind of red-morocco 
and burnt-cork sublimity, and great melodra- 


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57 


matic clanking of chains, and hooting of owls, 
and other fallow deer ! ” 

“ After breakfast,” said Flemming, “ we will 
go up to the castle. I must get acquainted 
with this mirror of owls, this modern Till 
Eulenspiegel. See what a glorious morning 
we have ! It is truly a wondrous winter ! 
what summer sunshine ! what soft Venetian 
fogs ! How the wanton, treacherous air co^ 
quets with the old graybeard trees ! Such 
weather makes the grass and our beards grow 
apace ! But we have an old saying in Eng- 
lish, that winter never rots in the sky. So 
he will come down at last in his old-fashioned 
mealy coat. We shall have snow in spring ; 
and the blossoms will be all snow-flakes. And 
afterwards a summer, which will be no sum- 
mer, but, as Jean Paul says, only a winter 
painted green. Is it not so ? ” 

“ Unless I am much deceived in the climate 
of Heidelberg,” replied the Baron, “we shall 
not have to wait long for snow. We have 
sudden changes here ; and I should not mar- 
vel much if it snowed before night.” 

“The greater reason for making good use 
of the morning sunshine, then. Let us hasten 
to the castle, after which my he-art yearns.” 

3 * 


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CHAPTER VII. 

Lives of Scholars 

HE forebodings of the Baron proved true. 



L In the afternoon the weather changed. 
The western wind began to blow, and drew a 
cloud-veil over the face of Heaven, as a breath 
does over the human face in a mirror. Soon 
the snow began to fall. Athwart the distant 
landscape it swept like a white mist. The 
storm-wind came from the Alsatian hills, and 
struck the dense clouds aslant through the 
air. And ever faster fell the snow, a roaring 
torrent from those mountainous clouds. The 
setting sun glared wildly from the summit 
of the hills, and sank like a burning ship at 
sea, wrecked in the tempest. Thus the even- 
ing set in ; and winter stood at the gate wag- 
ging his white and shaggy beard, like an old 
harper chanting an old rhyme : — “How cold 
it is ! how cold it is ! ” 

“I like such a storm as this,” said Flem- 
ming, who stood at the window, looking out 


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59 


into the tempest and the gathering darkness. 
“ The silent falling of snow is to me one of 
the most solemn things in nature. The fall 
of autumnal leaves does not so much affect 
me. But the driving storm is grand. It 
startles me ; it awakens me. It is wild and 
woful, like my own soul. I cannot help think- 
ing of the sea ; how the waves run and toss 
their arms about, — and the wind plays on 
those great sonorous harps, the shrouds and 
masts of ships. Winter is here in earnest ! 
How the old churl whistles and threshes the 
snow ! Sleet and rain are falling too. Al- 
ready the trees are bearded with icicles ; and 
the two broad branches of yonder pine look 
like the white mustache of some old Ger- 
man baron.” 

“And to-morrow it will look more wintry 
still,” said his friend. “We shall wake up 
and find that the frost-spirit has been at work 
all night building Gothic cathedrals on our 
windows, just as the Devil built the Cathe- 
dral of Cologne. So draw the curtains, and 
come, sit here by the warm fire.” 

“And now,” said Flemming, having done 
as his friend desired, “tell me something of 
Heidelberg and its University. I suppose 


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we shall lead about as solitary and studious a 
life here as we did of yore in little Gottingen, 
with nothing to amuse us, save our own day- 
dreams.” 

“ Pretty mueh so,” replied the Baron ; “which 
cannot fail to please you, since you are in pur- 
suit of tranquillity. As to the University, it 
is, as you know, one of the oldest in Ger- 
many. It was founded in the fourteenth cen- 
tury by the Count Palatine Ruprecht, and had 
in the first year more than five hundred stu- 
dents, all busily committing to memory, after 
the old scholastic wise, the rules of grammar 
versified by Alexander de Villa Dei, and the 
extracts made by Peter the Spaniard from 
Michel Psellus’s Synopsis of Aristotle’s Orga- 
non, and the Categories, with Porphyry’s Com- 
mentaries. Truly, I do not much wonder that 
Erigena Scotus should have been put to death 
by his scholars with their penknives. They 
must have been pushed to the very verge 
of despair.” 

“ What a strange picture a university pre- 
sents to the imagination ! The lives of schol- 
ars in their cloistered stillness ; — literary men 
of retired habits, and professors who study six- 
teen hours a day, and never see the world but 


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6i 

on a Sunday. Nature has, no doubt for some 
wise purpose, placed in their hearts this love 
of literary labor and seclusion. Otherwise, 
who would feed the undying lamp of thought ^ 
But for such men as these, a blast of wind 
through the chinks and crannies of this old 
world, or the flapping of a conqueror’s banner, 
would blow it out forever. The light of the 
soul is easily extinguished. And whenever 
I reflect upon these things, I become aware 
of the great importance, in a nation’s history, 
of the individual fame of scholars and literary 
men. I fear that it is far greater than the 
world is willing to acknowledge ; or, perhaps 1 
should say, than the world has thought of ac- 
knowledging. Blot out from England’s his- 
tory the names of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Spen- 
ser, and Milton only, and how much of her 
glory would you blot out with them ! Take 
from Italy such names as Dante, Petrarch, 
Boccaccio, Michel Angelo, and Raphael, and 
how much would be wanting to the complete- 
ness of her glory ! How would the history 
of Spain look, if the leaves were torn out 
on which are written the names of Cervantes, 
Lope de Vega, and Calderon ? What would 
be the fame of Portugal, without her Camoens ; 


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of France, without her Racine, and Rabelais, 
and Voltaire ; or of Germany, without her Mar- 
tin Luther, her Goethe, and her Schiller ? — . 
Nay, what were the nations of old, without 
their philosophers, poets, and historians ? Tell 
me, do not these men, in all ages and in all 
places, emblazon with bright colors the armo- 
rial bearings of their country ? Yes, and far 
more than this ; for in all ages and in all 
places they give humanity assurance of its 
greatness, and say, ‘ Call not this time or peo- 
ple wholly barbarous ; for thus much, even then 
and there, could the human mind achieve ! ’ 
But the boisterous world has hardly thought of 
acknowledging all this. Therein it has shown 
itself somewhat ungrateful. Else, whence the 
great reproach, the general scorn, the loud 
derision, with which, to take a familiar exam- 
ple, the monks of the Middle Ages are re- 
garded ? That they slept their lives away is 
most untrue. For in an age when books 
were few, — so few, so precious, that they 
were often chained to their oaken shelves with 
iron chains, like galley-slaves to their benches, 
— these men, with their laborious hands, cop- 
ied upon parchment all the lore and wisdom 
of the past, and transmitted it to us. Perhaps 


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63 

it is not too much to say, that, but for these 
monks, not one line of the classics would have 
reached our day. Surely, then, we can pardon 
something to those superstitious ages, perhaps 
even the mysticism of the scholastic philoso- 
phy ; since, after all, we can find no harm 
in it, only the mistaking of the possible for 
the real, and the high aspirings of the human 
mind after a long-sought and unknown some- 
what. I think the name of Martin Luther, 
the monk of Wittenberg, alone sufficient to 
redeem all monkhood from the reproach of 
laziness. If this will not, perhaps the vast 
folios of Thomas Aquinas will ; or the count- 
less manuscripts, still treasured in old libra- 
ries, whose yellow and wrinkled pages remind 
one of the hands that wrote them and the 
faces that once bent over them.” 

“ An eloquent homily,” said the Baron, 
laughing ; “ a most touching appeal in be- 
half of suffering humanity ! For my part, 
I am no friend of this entire seclusion from 
the world. It has a very injurious effect on 
the mind of a scholar. The Chinese proverb 
is true : a single conversation across the table 
with a wise man is better than ten years’ mere 
study of books. I have known some of these 


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literary men who thus shut themselves up 
from the world. Their minds never come 
in contact with those of their fellow-men. 
They read little. They think much. They 
are mere dreamers. They know not what 
is new nor what is old. They often strike 
upon trains of thought, which stand written 
in good authors some century or so back, 
and are even current in the mouths of men 
around them. But they know it not; and 
imagine they are bringing forward some- 
thing very original;, when they publish their 
thoughts.” 

“ It reminds me,” replied Flemming, “ of 
what Dr. Johnson said of Goldsmith, when 
he proposed to travel abroad in order to bring 
home improvements : — * He will bring home 
a wheelbarrow, and call that an improvement.’ 
It is unfortunately the same with some of 
these scholars.” 

“And the worst of it is,” said the Baron, 
“ that, in solitude, some fixed idea will often 
take root in the mind, and grow till it over-' 
shadow all one’s thoughts. To this must all 
opinions come ; no thought can enter there, 
which shall not be wedded to the fixed idea. 
There it remains, and grows. It is like the 


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65 


watchman’s wife, in the Tower of Waiblingen, 
who grew to such a size, that she could not 
get down the narrow staircase ; and when 
her husband died, his successor was forced to 
marry the fat widow in the Tower.” 

“ I remember an old English comedy,” said 
Flemming, laughing, “ in which a scholar is 
described as a creature that can strike fire 
in the morning at his tinder-box, — put on 
a pair of lined slippers, — sit ruminating till 
dinner, and then go to his meat when the 
bell rings*; — one that hath a peculiar gift 
in a cough, and a license to spit ; — or, if you 
will have him defined by negatives, he is one 
that cannot make a good leg, — one that can- 
not eat a mess of broth cleanly. What think 
you of that } ” 

“That is just as people are always repre- 
sented in English comedy,” said the Baron. 
“ The portrait is overcharged, — caricatured.” 

“ And yet,” continued Flemming, “ no long- 
er ago than yesterday, in the preface of a work 
by a Professor of Philosophy in the University 
of Halle, I read this passage.” 

He opened a book and read : — 

“Here in Halle, where we have no public 
garden and no Tivoli, no London Exchange, 


66 


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no Paris Chamber of Deputies, no Berlin nor 
Vienna theatres, no Strasburg Minster nor 
Salzburg Alps, no Grecian ruins nor fantastic 
Catholicism, — in fine, nothing, which, after 
one’s daily task is finished, can divert and 
refresh him, without his knowing or caring 
how, — I consider the sight of a proof-sheet 
quite as delightful as a walk in the Prater 
of Vienna, I fill my pipe very quietly, take 
out my inkstand and pens, seat myself in the 
corner of my sofa, read, correct, and now for 
the first time really set about thinking what 
I have written. To see this origin of a book, 
this metamorphosis of manuscripl; into print, 
is a delight to which I give myself up entirely. 
Look you, — this melancholy pleasure, which 
would have furnished the departed Voss with 
worthy matter for more than one blessed Idyl 
(the more so, as on such occasions I am gener- 
ally arrayed in a morning gown, though, I am 
sorry to say, not a calamanco one, with great 
flowers), — this melancholy pleasure has al- 
ready grown here in Halle to a sweet, pedan- 
tic habit. Since I began my hermit’s life 
here, I have been printing ; and so long as 
I remain here, I shall keep on printing. In 
all probability, I shall die with a proof-sheet 
in my hand.” 


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67 


“This,” said Flemming, closing the book, 
“is no caricature by a writer of comedy, but 
a portrait by a man’s own hand. We can see 
by it how easily, under certain circumstances, 
one may glide into habits of seclusion, and in 
a kind of undress, slipshod hardihood, with a 
pipe and a proof-sheet, defy the world. Into 
this state scholars have too often fallen ; thus 
giving some ground for the prevalent opinion, 
that scholarship and rusticity are inseparable. 
To me, I confess, it is painful to see the scholar 
and the world assume so often a hostile atti- 
tude, and set each other at defiance. Surely, 
it is a characteristic trait of a great and liberal 
mind, that it recognizes humanity in all its 
forms and conditions. I am a student ; — and 
always, when I sit alone at night, I recognize 
the divinity of the student, as she reveals her- 
self to me in the flame of the midnight lamp. 
But, because solitude and books are not un- 
pleasant to me, — nay, wished for, sought 
after, — shall I say to my brother. Thou fool ! 
Shall I take the world by the beard, and 
say. Thou art old, and mad ! Shall I look 
society in the face, and say. Thou art heart- 
less ! — Heartless ! Beware of that word ! 
The good Jean Paul says very wisely, that 


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^Life in every shape should be precious to 
us, for the same reason that the Turks care- 
fully collect every scrap of paper that comes 
in their way, because the name of God may 
be written upon it.’ Nothing is more true 
than this, yet nothing more neglected.” 

“ If it be painful to see this misunderstand- 
ing between scholars and the world,” said the 
Baron, “ I think it is still more painful to see 
the private sufferings of authors by profession. 
How many have languished in poverty, how 
many died broken-hearted, how many gone 
mad with over-excitement and disappointed 
hopes ! How instructive and painfully in- 
teresting are their lives ! with so many 
weaknesses, so much to pardon, so much 
to pity, so much to admire ! I think he was 
not so far out of the way who said that, next 
to the Newgate Calendar, the Biography of 
Authors is the most sickening chapter in the 
history of man.” 

“It is indeed enough to make one’s heart 
ache ! ” interrupted Flemming. “ Only think 
of Johnson and Savage, rambling about the 
streets of London at midnight, without a place 
to sleep in ; Otway starved to death ; Collins 
mad, and howling like a dog, through the 


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69 


aisles of Chichester Cathedral, at the sound 
of church music ! and Goldsmith, strutting 
up Fleet Street in his peach-blossom coat, 
to knock a bookseller over the pate with one 
of his own volumes ; and then, in his poverty, 
about to marry his landlady in Green Arbor 
Court.” 

“ A life of sorrow and privation, a hard life 
indeed, do these poor devil authors have of it,” 
replied the Baron ; and then at last must get 
them to the workhouse, or creep away into 
some hospital to die.” 

After all,” said Flemming, with a sigh, 
•‘poverty is not a crime.” 

“ But something worse,” interrupted the 
Baron ; “ as Dufresny said, when he married 
his laundress, because he could not pay her 
bill. He was the author, as you know, of the 
opera of Lot, at whose representation the 
great pun was made ; — I say the great pun, 
as we say the great Tun of Heidelberg. As 
one of the performers was singing the line, 
amour a vaincu Loth] {^ingt culottes^ a 
voice from the pit cried out, ‘ Quil en donne 
une d r auteur ! * ” 

Flemming laughed at the unseasonable jest ; 
and then, after a short pause, continued : — ^ 


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‘‘And yet, if you look closely at the cause? 
of these calamities of authors, you will find 
that many of them spring from false and ex- 
aggerated ideas of poetry and the poetic char- 
acter ; and from disdain of common sense, 
upon which all character worth having is 
founded. This comes from keeping aloof 
from the world, apart from our fellow-men ; 
disdainful of society, as frivolous. By too 
much sitting still the body becomes un- 
healthy, and soon the mind. This is na- 
ture’s law. She will never see her children 
wronged. If the mind, which rules the body, 
ever forgets itself so far as to trample upon 
its slave, the slave is never generous enough 
to forgive the injury, but will rise and smite 
its oppressor. Thus has many a monarch 
mind been dethroned.” 

“After all,” said the Baron, “we must par- 
don much to men of genius. A delicate 
organization renders them keenly susceptible 
to pain and pleasure. And then they idealize 
everything ; and, in the moonlight of fancy, 
even the deformity of vice seems beautiful.” 

“ And this you think should be forgiven } ” 

“At all events, it is forgiven. The world 
loves a spice of wickedness. Talk as you 


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I “ 


will about principle, impulse is more attrac- 
tive, even when it goes too far. The pas- 
sions of youth, like unhooded hawks, fly high, 
with musical bells upon their jesses ; and we 
forget the cruelty of the sport in the daunt- 
less bearing of the gallant bird.” 

“And thus do the world and society cor- 
rupt the scholar!” exclaimed Flemming. 

Here the Baron rang, and ordered a bottle 
of Prince Metternich. He then very slowly 
filled his pipe, and began to smoke. Flem- 
ming was jU)st in a day-dream. 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Literary Fame 

IME has a Doomsday-Book, upon whose 



pages he is continually recording illus- 
trious names. But as often as a new name 
is written there, an old one disappears. Only 
a few stand in illuminated characters, never 
to be effaced. These are the high nobility 
of Nature, — Lords of the Public Domain of 
Thought. Posterity shall never question their 
titles. But those whose fame lives only in the 
indiscreet opinion of unwise men, must soon 
be as well forgotten as if they had never been. 
To this great oblivion must most men come. 
It is better, therefore, that they should soon 
make up their minds to this, — well knowing 
that, as their bodies must erelong be resolved 
into dust again, and their graves tell no tales 
of them, so must their names likewise be 
utterly forgotten, and their most cherished 
thoughts, purposes, and opinions have no 
longer an individual being among men, but 


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73 


be resolved and incorporated into the uni- 
verse of thought. If, then, the imagination 
can trace the noble dust of heroes, till we 
find it stopping a beer-barrel, and know that 

“Imperial Caesar, dead and turned to clay, 

May stop a hole to keep the wind away,” — 

not less can it trace the noble thoughts of 
great men, till it finds them mouldered into 
the common dust of conversation, and used 
to stop men’s mouths, and patch up theories, 
to keep out the flaws of opinion. Such, for 
example, are all popular adages and wise 
proverbs, which are now resolved into the 
common mass of thought ; their authors for- 
gotten, and having no more an individual 
being among men. 

It is better, therefore, that men should 
soon make up their minds to be forgotten, 
and look about them, or within them, for 
some higher motive, in what they do, than 
the approbation of men, which is Fame, — 
namely, their duty ; that they should be con- 
stantly and quietly at work, each in his sphere, 
regardless of effects, and leaving their fame 
to take care of itself Difficult must this 
indeed be, in our imperfection ; impossible, 


4 


74 


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perhaps, to achieve it wholly. Yet the reso- 
lute, the indomitable will of man can achieve 
much, — at times, even this victory over him- 
self; being persuaded that fame comes only 
when deserved, and then is as inevitable as 
destiny, for it is destiny. 

It has become a common saying, that men 
of genius are always in advance of their age ; 
which is true. There is something equally, 
true, yet not so common ; namely, that, of 
these men of genius, the best and bravest 
are in advance not only of their own age, 
but of every age. As the German prose- 
poet says, every possible future is behind 
them. We cannot suppose that a period 
of time will ever arrive, when the world, or 
any considerable portion of it, shall have 
come up abreast with these great minds, so 
as fully to comprehend them. 

And, O, how majestically they walk in his- 
tory ! some like the sun, “ with all his trav- 
elling glories round him ” ; others wrapped 
in gloom, yet glorious as a night with stars. 
Through the else silent darkness of the past, 
the spirit hears their slow and solemn foot- 
steps. Onward they pass, like those hoary 
elders seen in the vision of an earthly para- 


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75 


disc, attendant angels bearing golden lights 
before them, and, above and behind, the 
whole air painted with seven listed colors, 
as from the trail of pennons ! 

And yet, on earth, these men were not 
happy, — not all happy, in the outward cir- 
cumstance of their lives. They were in 
want, and in pain, and familiar with prison- 
bars, and the damp, weeping walls of dun- 
geons ! O, I have looked with wonder upon 
those who, in sorrow and privation, and bodily 
discomfort, and sickness, which is the shadow 
of death, have worked right on to the accom- 
plishment of their great purposes ; toiling 
much, enduring much, fulfilling much ; — and 
then, with shattered nerves, and sinews all 
unstrung, have laid themselves down in the 
grave, and slept the sleep of death, — and 
the world talks of them, while they sleep ! 

It would seem, indeed, as if all their suf- 
ferings had but sanctified them ; as if the 
death-angel, in passing, had touched them 
with the hem of his garment, and made them 
holy ; as if the hand of disease had been 
stretched out over them only to make the 
sign of the cross upon their souls ! And 
as in the sun’s eclipse we can behold the 


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great stars shining in the heavens, so in 
this life-eclipse have these men beheld the 
lights of the great eternity, burning solemnly 
and forever ! 

This was Flemming’s reverie. It was bro- 
ken by the voice of the Baron, suddenly ex- 
claiming : — 

“An angel is flying over the house! — Here, 
in this goblet, fragrant as the honey of Hy- 
mettus, fragrant as the wild-flowers in the 
Angel’s Meadow, I drink to the divinity of 
thy dreams.” 

“This is all sunshine,” said Flemming, as 
he drank. “The wine of the Prince, and 
the Prince of wines. By the way, did you 
ever read that brilliant Italian dithyrambic, 
Redi’s Bacchus in Tuscany .? an ode which 
seems to have been poured out of the author’s 
soul, as from a golden pitcher, 

‘ Filled with the wine 
Of the vine 
Benign, 

That flames so red in Sanspvine.’ 

He calls the Montepulciano the king of all 
wines.” 

“ Prince Metternich,” said the Baron, “ is 
greater than any king in Italy ; and I won- 


A Romance 


77 


der that this precious wine has never inspired 
a German poet to write a Bacchus on the 
Rhine. Many little songs we have on this 
theme, but none very extraordinary. The 
best are Max Schenkendorf’s Song of the 
Rhine, and the Song of Rhine Wine, by 
Claudius, a poet who never drank Rhenish 
without sugar. We will drink for him a 
blessing on the Rhine.” 

And again the crystal lips of the goblets 
kissed each other, with a musical chime, as 
of evening bells at vintage-time from the 
villages on the Rhine. Of a truth, I do not 
much wonder that the German poet Schiller 
loved to write by candle-light with a bottle 
of Rhine-wine upon the table. Nor do I 
wonder at the worthy schoolmaster, Roger 
Ascham, when he says, in one of his letters 
from Germany to Mr. John Raven, of John’s 
College: “Tell Mr. Maden I will drink with 
him now a carouse of wine ; and would to God 
he had a vessel of Rhenish wine ; and per- 
chance, when I come to Cambridge, I will 
so provide here, that every year I will have 
a little piece of Rhenish wine.” Nor, in fine, 
do I wonder at the German emperor of whom 
he speaks in another letter to the same John 


78 


Hyperion 


Raven, and says, “The emperor drank the 
best that I ever saw; he had his head in 
the glass five times as long as any of us, 
and never drank less than a good quart at 
once of Rhenish wine.” 

“But to resume our old theme of scholars 
and their whereabout,” said the Baron, with 
an unusual glow, caught, no doubt, from the 
golden sunshine, imprisoned, like the student 
Anselmus, in the glass bottle ; “ where should 
the scholar live } In solitude, or in society ? 
in the green stillness of the country, where he 
can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the 
dark, gray town, where he can hear and feel 
the throbbing heart of man ? I will make 
answer for him, and say, in the dark, gray 
town. O, they do greatly err who think 
that the stars are all the poetry which cities 
have ; and therefore that the poet’s only dwell- 
ing should be in sylvan solitudes, under the 
green roof of trees. Beautiful, no doubt, are 
all the forms of Nature, when transfigured 
by the miraculous power of poetry ; hamlets 
and harvest-fields, and nut-brown waters, flow- 
ing ever under the forest, vast and shadowy, 
with all the sights and sounds of rural life. 
But after all, what are these but the deco- 


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79 


rations and painted scenery in the great thea- 
tre of human life ? What are they but the 
coarse materials of the poet’s song ? Glorious 
indeed is the world of God around us, but 
more glorious the world of God within us. 
There lies the Land of Song ; there lies the 
poet’s native land. The river of life, that 
flows through streets tumultuous, bearing 
along so many gallant hearts, so many wrecks 
of humanity; — the many homes and house- 
holds, each a little world in itself, revolving 
round its fireside, as a central sun ; all forms 
of human joy and suffering, brought into that 
narrow compass ; — and to be in this, and 
be a part of this ; acting, thinking, rejoicing, 
sorrowing, with his fellow-men ; — such, such 
should be the poet’s life. If he would describe 
the world, he should live in the world. The 
mind of the scholar, if you would have it large 
and liberal, should come in contact with other 
minds. It is better that his armor should be 
somewhat bruised by rude encounters even, 
than hang forever rusting on the wall. Nor 
will his themes be few or trivial, because ap- 
parently shut in between the walls of houses, 
and having merely the decorations of street 
sc;enery. A ruined character is as picturesque 


8o 


Hyperion 


as a ruined castle. There are dark abysses 
and yawning gulfs in the human heart, which 
can be rendered passable only by bridging 
them over with iron nerves and sinews, as 
Challey bridged the Sarine in Switzerland, 
and Telford the sea between Anglesea and 
England, with chain bridges. These are the 
great themes of human thought ; not green 
grass, and flowers, and moonlight. Besides, 
the mere external forms of Nature we make 
our own, and carry with us everywhere, by 
the power of memory.” 

“I fear, however,” interrupted Flemming, 
“ that in towns the soul of man grows proud. 
He needs at times to be sent forth, like the 
Assyrian monarch, into green fields, ‘ a won- 
drous wretch and weedless,’ to eat green 
herbs, and be wakened and chastised by the 
rain shower and winter’s bitter weather. 
Moreover, in cities there is danger of the 
soul’s becoming wed to pleasure, and forget- 
ful of its high vocation. There have been 
souls dedicated to heaven from childhood, and 
guarded by good angels as sweet seclusions 
for holy thoughts, and prayers, and all good 
purposes ; wherein pious wishes dwelt like 
nuns, and every image was a saint ; and yet 


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8i 


in life’s vicissitudes, by the treachery of occa- 
sion, by the thronging passions of great cities, 
have become soiled and sinful. They resem- 
ble those convents on the river Rhine, which 
have been changed to taverns ; from whose 
chambers the pious inmates have long de- 
parted, and in whose cloisters the footsteps 
of travellers have effaced the images of buried 
saints, and whose walls are written over with 
ribaldry and the names of strangers, and re- 
sound no more with holy hymns, but with 
revelry and loud voices.” 

*‘Both town and country have their dan- 
gers,” said the Baron ; “ and therefore, wher- 
ever the scholar lives, he must never forget 
his high vocation. Other artists give them- 
selves up wholly to the study of their art. 
It becomes with them almost religion. For 
the most part, and in their youth at least, 
they dwell in lands where the whole atmos- 
phere of the soul is beauty ; laden with it, 
as the air may be with vapor, till their very 
nature is saturated with the genius of their 
art. Such, for example, is the artist’s life in 
Italy.” 

“ I agree with you,” exclaimed Flemming ; 
“and such should be the poet’s everywhere; 


82 


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for he has his Rome, his Florence, his whole 
glowing Italy, within the four walls of his 
library. He has in his books the ruins of an 
antique world, — and the glories of a modem 
one, — his Apollo and Transfiguration. He 
must neither forget nor undervalue his voca- 
tion ; but thank God that he is a poet ; and 
everywhere be true to himself, and to ‘ the 
vision and the faculty divine’ he recognizes 
within him.” 

“ But, at any rate, a town life is most event- 
ful,” continued the Baron. “The men who 
make, or take, the lives of poets and scholars, 
always complain that these lives are barren 
of incidents. Hardly a literary biography 
begins without some such apology, unwisely 
made. I confess, however, that it is not made 
without some show of truth, if by incidents 
we mean only those startling events which 
suddenly turn aside the stream of time, and 
change the world’s history in an hour. There 
is certainly a uniformity, pleasing or unpleas- 
ing, in literary life, which for the most part 
makes to-day seem twin-born with yesterday. 
But if by incidents you mean events in the 
history of the human mind, ( and why not ? ) 
noiseless events, that do not scar the forehead 


A Romafue 


83 

of the world as battles do, yet change it not 
the less, then surely the lives of literary men 
are most eventful. The complaint and the 
apology are both foolish. I do not see why 
a successful book is not as great an event 
as a successful campaign ; only different in 
kind, and not easily compared.” 

“ Indeed,” interrupted Flemming, “ in no 
sense is the complaint strictly true, though 
at times apparently so. Events enough there 
are, were they all set down. A life that 
is worth writing at all is worth writing mi- 
nutely. Besides, all literary men have not 
lived in silence and solitude ; — not all in still- 
ness, not all in shadow. For many have lived 
in troubled times, in the rude and adverse for- 
tunes of the state and age, and could say, with 
Wallenstein, 

‘ Our life was but a battle and a march ; 

And, like the wind’s blast, never resting, homeless. 
We stormed across the war-convulsed earths’ 

Many such examples has history recorded, — 
Dante, Cervantes, Byron, and others ; men 
of iron, — men who have dared to breast the 
strong breath of public opinion, and, like spec- 
tre-ships, come sailing right against the wind. 


84 


Hyperion 


Othe/s have been puffed out by the first ad- 
verse wind that blew ; disgraced and sorrow- 
ful, because they could not please others. 
Had they been men, they would have made 
these disappointments their best friends, and 
learned from them the needful lesson of self- 
reliance.” 

“To confess the truth,” added the Baron, 
“the lives of literary men, with their hopes 
and disappointments, and quarrels and calam- 
ities, present a melancholy picture of man’s 
strength and weakness. On that very ac- 
count the scholar can make them profitable 
for encouragement, consolation, warning.” 

“And after all,” continued Flemming, “per- 
haps the greatest lesson which the lives of 
literary men teach us is told in a single word : 
Wait! — Every man must patiently bide his 
time. He must wait. More particularly in 
lands like my native land, where the pulse 
of life beats with such feverish and impatient 
throbs, is the lesson needful. Our national 
character wants the dignity of repose. We 
seem to live in the midst of a battle, — there 
is such a din, such a hurrying to and fro. In 
the streets of a crowded city it is difficult to 
walk slowly. You feel the rushing of the 


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85 


crowd, and rush with it onward. In the press 
of our life it is difficult to be calm. In this 
stress of wind and tide, all professions seem 
to drag their anchors, and are swept out into 
the main. The voices of the Present say, 
* Come ! ’ But the voices of the Past say, 
' Wait ! ’ With calm and solemn footsteps 
the rising tide bears against the rushing tor- 
rent up stream, and pushes back the hurrying 
waters. With no less calm and solemn foot- 
steps, nor less certainty, does a great mind 
bear up against public opinion, and push back 
its hurrying stream. Therefore should every 
man wait, — should bide his time. Not in 
listless idleness, — not in useless pastime, — 
not in querulous dejection, — but in constant, 
steady, cheerful endeavors, always willing and 
fulfilling, and accomplishing his task, that, 
when the occasion comes, he may be equal 
to the occasion. And if it never comes, what 
matters it "i What matters it to the world, 
whether I, or you, or another man did such 
a deed, or wrote such a book, so be it the 
deed and book were well done } It is the 
part of an indiscreet and troublesome am- 
bition to care too much about fame, — about 
what the world says of us ; — to be always 


86 


HypeTnon 


looking into the faces of others for approval ; 
to be always anxious for the effect of what 
we do and say ; to be always shouting to heai* 
the echo of our own voices. If you look about 
you, you will see men who are wearing life 
away in feverish anxiety of fame, and the last 
we shall ever hear of them will be the funeral 
bell that tolls them to their early graves ! 
Unhappy men, and unsuccessful ! because 
their purpose is, not to accomplish well their 
task, but to clutch the ‘ trick and fantasy of 
fame ’ ; and they go to their graves with pur- 
poses unaccomplished and wishes unfulfilled. 
Better for them, and for the world in their 
example, had they known how to wait ! Be- 
lieve me, the talent of success is nothing more 
than doing what you can do well ; and doing 
well whatever you do, — without a thought 
of fame. If it come at all, it will come be- 
cause it is deserved, not because it is sought 
after. And, moreover, there will be no mis- 
givings, no disappointment, no hasty, feverish, 
exhausting excitement.” 


Thus endeth the First Book of Hyperion. 
I make no record of the winter. Paul Flem* 


A Romance 


87 


ming buried himself in books, — in old, dusty 
books. He worked his way diligently through 
the ancient poetic lore of Germany, from 
Frankish Legends of Saint George, and Sax- 
on Rhyme-Chronicles, and Nibelungen-Lieds, 
and Helden-Buchs, and Songs of the Min- 
nesingers and Meistersingers, and Ships of 
Fools, and Reynard the Foxes, and Death- 
Dances, and Lamentations of Damned Souls, 
into the bright, sunny land of harvests, where, 
amid the golden grain and the blue corn- 
flowers, walk the modern bards, and sing. 









BOOK THE SECOND 


Something the heart must have to cherish, 
Must love, and joy, and sorrow learn ; 
Something with passion clasp, or perish. 
And in itself to ashes bum. 


4 


BOOK THE SECOND 


CHAPTER I. 

Spring 

I T was a sweet carol which the Rhodian 
children sang of old in Spring, bearing 
in their hands, from door to door, a swallow, 
as herald of the season : — 

“ The Swallow is come ! 

The Swallow is come I 

O, fair are the seasons, and light 

Are the days that she brings, 

With her dusky wings, 

And her bosom snowy white ! ” 

A pretty carol, too, is that which the Hun- 
garian boys, on the islands of the Danube, 
sing to the returning stork in Spring: — 

“ Stork ! Stork ! poor Stork ! 

Why is thy foot so bloody ? 

A Turkish boy hath tom it ; 

Hungarian boy will heal it. 

With fiddle, fife, and drum.” 


92 


Hyperion 


But what child has a heart to sing in this 
capricious clime of ours, where Spring comes 
sailing in from the sea, with wet and heavy 
cloud-sails, and the misty pennon of the East- 
wind nailed to the mast ? Yet even here, and 
in the stormy month of March even, there 
are bright, warm mornings, when we open 
our windows to inhale the balmy air. The 
pigeons fly to and fro, and we hear the whir- 
ring sound of wings. Old flies crawl out of 
the otacks, to sun themselves, and think it 
is Summer. They die in their conceit ; and 
so do our hearts within us, when the cold 
sea-breath comes from the eastern sea, and 
again 

“ The driving hail 

Upon the window beats with icy flail.” 

The red-flowering maple is first in blossom, 
its beautiful purple flowers unfolding a fort- 
night before the leaves. The moose-wood fol- 
lows, with rose-colored buds and leaves ; and 
the dog-wood, robed in the white of its own 
pure blossoms. Then comes the sudden rain- 
storm ; and the birds fly to and fro, and shriek. 
Where do they hide themselves in such storms } 
at what firesides dry their feathery cloaks } 
At the fireside of the great, hospitable sun, — 


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93 


to-morrow, not before ; — they must sit in wet 
garments until then. 

In all climates Spring is beautiful. In the 
South it is intoxicating, and sets a poet beside 
himself. The birds begin to sing ; they utter 
a few rapturous notes, and then wait for an 
answer in the silent woods. Those green- 
coated musicians, the frogs, make holiday in 
the neighboring marshes. They, too, belong 
to the orchestra of Nature, whose vast theatre 
is again opened, though the doors have been 
so long bolted with icicles, and the scenery 
hung with snow and frost like cobwebs. This 
is the prelude which announces the opening 
of the scene. Already the grass shoots forth. 
The waters leap with thrilling pulse through 
the veins of the earth ; the sap through the 
veins of the plants and trees ; and the blood 
through the veins of man. What a thrill of 
delight in Spring-time ! What a joy in being 
and moving ! Men are at work in gardens ; 
and in the air there is an odor of the fresh 
earth. The leaf-buds begin to swell and blush. 
The white blossoms of the cherry hang upon 
the boughs like snow-flakes ; and erelong our 
next-door neighbors will be completely hidden 
from us by the dense green foliage. The May- 


94 


Hyperion 


flowers open their soft blue eyes. Children 
are let loose in the fields and gardens. They 
hold buttercups under each other’s chins, to 
see if they love butter. And the little girls 
adorn themselves with chains and curls of dan- 
delions ; pull out the yellow leaves, to see if 
the school-boy loves them, and blow the down 
from the leafless stalk, to find out if their 
mothers want them at home. 

And at night so cloudless and so still ! Not 
a voice of living thing, — not a whisper of leaf 
or waving bough, — not a breath of wind, — 
not a sound upon the earth nor in the air! 
And overhead bends the blue sky, dewy and 
soft, and radiant with innumerable stars, like 
the inverted bell of some blue flower, sprinkled 
with golden dust, and breathing fragrance. 
Or if the heavens are overcast, it is no wild 
storm of wind and rain, but clouds that melt 
and fall in showers. One does not wish to 
sleep, but lies awake to hear the pleasant 
sound of the dropping rain. 

It was thus the Spring began in Heidel- 
berg. 


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95 


CHAPTER II. 

A Colloquy 

ND what think you of Tiedge’s Urania?* 



said the Baron, smiling, as Paul Flem- 
ming closed the book, and laid it upon the 


table. 


“I think,” said Flemming, “that it is very 
much like Jean Paul’s grandfather, — in the 
highest degree poor and pious.” 

“ Bravo ! ” exclaimed the Baron. “ That is 
the best criticism I have heard upon the book. 
For my part, I dislike it as much as Goethe 
did. It was once very popular, and lay about 
in every parlor and bedroom. This annoyed 
the old gentleman exceedingly ; and I do not 
wonder at it. He complains that at one time 
nothing was sung or said but this Urania. 
He believed in Immortality ; but wished to 
cherish his belief in quietness. He once told 
a friend of his, that he had, however, learned 
one thing from all this talk about Tiedge and 
his Urania ; which was, that the saints, as well 


96 


Hyperion 


as the nobility, constitute an aristocracy. He 
said he found stupid women who were proud 
because they believed in Immortality with 
Tiedge, and had to submit himself to not a 
few mysterious catechizings and tea-table lec- 
tures on this point ; and that he cut them short 
by saying, that he had no objection whatever 
to enter into another state of existence here- 
after, but prayed only that he might be spared 
the honor of meeting there any of those who 
had believed in it here, — for, if he did, they 
would flock around him on all sides, exclaim- 
ing, ^ Were we not in the right } Did we not 
tell you so } Has it not all turned out just as 
we said } ’ ” 

“ How shocked the good old ladies must 
have been ! ” said Flemming. 

“No doubt, their nerves suffered a little ; 
but the young women loved him all the better 
for being witty and wicked, — and thought, 
if they could only marry him, how they would 
reform him.” 

“ Bettina Brentano, for instance.” 

“ O, no ! That happened long afterwards. 
Goethe was then an old man of sixty. She 
had never seen him, and knew him only by 
his writings : a romantic girl of seventeen.” 


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97 


^‘And yet much in love with the sexagena- 
rian. And surely, a more wild, fantastic pas- 
sion never sprang up in woman’s breast. She 
was a flower that worshipped the sun.” 

“ She afterwards married Achim von Arnim, 
and is now a widow. And not the least singu- 
lar part of the affair is, that, having grown 
older, and I hope colder, she should herself 
publish the letters which passed between her 
and Goethe.” 

“Particularly the letter in which she de- 
scribes her first visit to Weimar, and her 
interview with the hitherto invisible divinity 
of her dreams. The old gentleman took her 
upon his knees, and she fell asleep with her 
head upon his shoulder. Oberon must have 
touched her eyes with the juice of Love-in- 
idleness. However, this book of Goethe’s 
Correspondence with a Child is a very sin- 
gular and valuable revelation of the feelings 
which he excited in female hearts. You say 
she afterwards married Achim von Arnim ? ” 

“Yes; and he and her brother, Clemens 
Brentano, published that wondrous book, the 
Boy’s Wonder-Horn.” 

“The Boy’s Wonder-Horn!” said Flem- 
ming, after a short pause, for the name 


98 


Hyperion 


seemed to have thrown him into a reverie ; — * 
“I know the book almost by heart. Of all 
your German books, it is the one which pro- 
duces upon my imagination the most wild and 
magic influence. I have a passion for bal- 
lads ! ” 

“And who has not said the Baron, with a 
smile. “ They are the gypsy-children of song, 
born under green hedgerows, in the leafy lanes 
and by-paths of literature, — in the genial 
Summer-time.” 

“Why do you say Summer-time, and not 
Summer.?” inquired Flemming. “The ex- 
pression reminds me of your old Minnesing- 
ers ; — of Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Wal-- 
ther von der Vogelweide, and Count Kraft 
von Toggenburg, and your own ancestor, I 
dare say, Burkhart von Hohenfels. They 
were always singing of the gentle Summer- 
time. They seemed to have lived poetry, as 
well- as sung it ; like the birds who make their 
marriaffe-beds in the voluptuous trees.” 

" Is that from Shakespeare .? ” 

“ No ; from Lope de Vega.” 

"You are deeply read in the lore of an- 
tiquity, and the Aubades and Watch-Songs 
of the old Minnesingers. What do you think 


A Romance 


99 


of the shoemaker poets that came after them, 
with their guilds and singing-schools ? It 
makes me laugh to think how the great streams 
of your German Helicon, shrunk to small rivu- 
lets, go bubbling and gurgling over the pebbly 
names of Zwinger, Wurgendrussel, Buchenlin, 
Hellfire, Old Stoll, Young Stoll, Strong Bopp, 
Dang Brotscheim, Batt Spiegel, Peter Pfort, 
and Martin Gumpel. And then the Corpora- 
tion of the Twelve Wise Masters, with their 
stumpfe-reime and klingende-reime, and their 
Hans Tindeisen’s rosemary-weise, and Joseph 
Schmierer’s flowery-paradise-weise, and Frau- 
enlob’s yellow-weise, and blue-weise, and frog- 
weise, and looking-glass-weise ! ” 

*‘0, I entreat you,” exclaimed Flemming, 
laughing, ‘^do not call those men poets ! You 
transport me to quaint old Nuremberg, and I 
see Hans Sachs making shoes, and Hans Folz 
shaving the burgomaster.” 

“ By the way,” interrupted the Baron, “ did 
you ever read Hoffmann’s beautiful story of 
Master Martin, the Cooper of Nuremberg ? I 
will read it to you this very night. It is the 
most delightful picture of that age which you 
can conceive. But look ! the sun has already 
set behind the Alsatian hills. Let us go up to 


Lcf C. 


lOO 


Hyperion 


the castle and look for the ghost in Prince 
Ruprecht’s tower. O, what a glorious sun- 
set!” 

Flemming looked at the evening sky, and a 
shade of sadness stole over his countenance. 
He told not to his friend the sorrow with 
which his heart was heavy, but kept it for 
himself alone. He knew that the time, which 
comes to all men, — the time to suffer and be 
silent, — had come to him likewise, and he 
spake no word. O, well has it been said, that 
there is no grief like the grief which does not 
speak I 


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lOl 


CHAPTER III. 


Owl-Towers 



HERE sits the old Frau Himmelauen, 


perched up in her owl-tower,” said the 
Baron to Flemming, as they passed along the 
Hauptstrasse. “ She looks down through her 
round-eyed spectacles from her nest there, 
and watches every one that goes by. I won- 
der what mischief she is hatching now. Do 
you know she has nearly ruined your character 
in town ? She says you have a rakish look, 
because you carry a cane, and your hair curls. 
Your gloves, also, are a shade too light for a 
strictly virtuous man.” 

“ It is very kind in her to take such good 
care of my character, particularly as I am a 
stranger in town. She is doubtless learned in 
the Clothes-Philosophy.” 

‘^And ignorant of everything else. She 
asked a friend of mine, the other day, whether 
Christ was a Catholic or a Protestant.” 

“ That is really too absurd ! ” 


102 


Hyperion 


Not too absurd to be true. And, ignorant 
as she is, she contrives to do a good deal of 
mischief in the course of the year. Why, the 
women already call you Wilhelm Meister.” 

" They are at liberty to call me what they 
please. But you, who know me better, know 
that I am something more than they would 
imply by the name.” 

“She says, moreover, that the American 
women sit with their feet out of the window, 
and have no pocket-handkerghiefs.” 

“ Excellent ! ” 

They crossed the market-place, and went up 
beneath the grand terrace into the court-yard 
of the castle. 

“ Let us go and sit under the great linden- 
trees, that grow on the summit of the Rent 
Tower,” said Flemming. “From that point 
as from a watch-tower, we can look down into 
the garden, and see the crowd below us.” 

“And amuse ourselves, as old Frau Him- 
melauen does at her window in the Haupt- 
strasse,” added the Baron. 

The keeper’s daughter unlocked for them 
the door of the tower, and, climbing the steep 
staircase, they seated themselves on a wooden 
bench under the linden-trees. 


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103 


How beautifully these trees overgrow the 
old tower! And see what a solid mass of 
masonry lies in the great fosse down there, 
toppled from its base by the explosion of a 
mine I It is like a rusty helmet cleft in twain, 
but still crested with towering plumes ! ” 

And what a motley crowd in the garden I 
Philisters and Sons of the Muses ! And there 
goes the venerable Thibaut, taking his even- 
ing stroll. Do you see him there, with his 
silver hair flowing over his shoulders, and that 
friendly face, which has for so many years 
pored over the Pandects ? I assure you, he 
inspires me with awe. And yet he is a merry 
old man, and loves his joke, particularly at 
the expense of Moses and other ancient law- 
givers.” 

Here their attention was diverted by a wild- 
looking person, who passed with long strides 
under the archway in the fosse, right beneath 
them, and disappeared among the bushes. He 
was ill-dressed, his hair flying in the wind, his 
movements hurried and nervous, and the ex- 
pression of his broad countenance wild, strange, 
and earnest. 

Who can that be ^ ” asked Flemming. “ He 
strides away indignantly, like one of Ossian's 
ghosts I ” 


104 


Hyperion 


“A great philosopher, whose name I have 
forgotten. Truly, a strange owl ! ” 

“ He looks like a lion with a hat on.” 

He is a mystic, who reads Schubert’s Histo- 
ry of the Soul, and lives, for the most part, in 
the clouds of the Middle Ages. To him the 
spirit-world is still open. He believes in the 
transmigration of souls ; and I dare say is now 
following the spirit of some departed friend, 
who has taken the form of yonder pigeon.” 

“ What a strange hallucination ! He lives, 
I suppose, in the land of cloud-shadows. And, 
as St. Thomas Aquinas was said to be lifted 
up from the ground by the fervor of his 
prayers, so, no doubt, is he by the fervor of 
his visions.” 

“He certainly appears to neglect all sublu- 
nary things ; and, to judge from certain appear- 
ances, since you seem fond of holy similitudes, 
one would say, that, like St. Serapion the Sin- 
donite, he had but one shirt. Yet what cares 
he ? he lives in that poetic dream-land of his 
thoughts, and clothes himself in poetry.” 

“He is a poet, then, as well as a philoso- 
pher.?” 

“ Yes ; but a poet who never writes. There 
is nothing in nature to which his imagination 


A Romance 


105 

does not give a poetic hue. But the power to 
make others see these objects in the same 
poetic light is wanting. Still he is a man of 
fine powers and feelings ; for next to being 
a great poet is the power of understanding 
one, — of finding one’s self in him, as we Ger- 
mans say.” 

Three figures, dressed in black, now came 
from one of the green alleys, and stopped on 
the brink of a fountain that was playing among 
the gay flowers in the garden. The eldest of 
the three was a woman in that season of life 
when the early autumn gives to the summer 
leaves a warmer glow, yet fades them not. 
Though the mother of many children, she was 
still beautiful ; — resembling those trees which 
blossom in October, when the leaves are chan- 
ging, and whose fruit and blossom are on the 
branch at once. At her side was a girl of 
some sixteen years, who seemed to lean upon 
her arm for support. Her figure was slight ; 
her countenance beautiful, though deadly 
white ; and her meek eyes like the flower of 
the nightshade, pale and blue, but sending 
forth golden rays. They were attended by a 
tall youth of foreign aspect, who seemed a 
young Antinoiis, with a mustache and a nose 
5 * 


io6 Hyperion 

d la Kosciusko. In other respects a perfect 
hero of romance. 

Unless mine eyes deceive me,” said the 
Baron, “there is the Frau von Ilmenau, with 
her pale daughter Emma, and that eternal 
Polish count. He is always hovering about 
them, playing the unhappy exile, merely to 
excite that poor girl’s sympathies ; and as 
wretched as genius and wantonness can make 
him.” 

“Why, he is already married, you know,” 
replied Flemming. “And his wife is young 
and beautiful.” 

“ That does not prevent him from being in 
love with some one else. That question was 
decided in the Courts of Love in the Middle 
Ages. Accordingly he has sent his fair wife 
to Warsaw. But how pale the poor child 
looks ! ” 

“ She has just recovered from severe illness. 
In the winter, you know, it was thought she 
would not live from hour to hour.” 

“And she has hardly recovered from that 
disease, before she seems threatened with a 
worse one ; namely, a hopeless passion. How- 
ever, people do not die of love now-a-days.” 

“ Seldom, perhaps,” said Flemming. “ And 


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107 


yet it is folly to pretend that one ever wholly 
recovers from a disappointed passion. Such 
wounds always leave a scar. There are faces 
I can never look upon without emotion. There 
are names I can never hear spoken without 
almost starting.” 

But whom have we here ? ” 

“That is the French poet Quinet, with his 
fair German wife ; one of the most interesting 
women I ever knew. He is the author of a 
very wild Mystery, or dramatic prose-poem, in 
which the Ocean, Mont Blanc, and the Cathe- 
dral of Strasburg have parts to play ; and the 
saints on the stained windows of the minster 
speak, and the statues and dead kings enact 
the Dance of Death. It is entitled Ahasue- 
rus, or the Wandering Jew.” 

“ Or, as the Danes would translate it, the 
Shoemaker of Jerusalem. That would be a 
still more fantastic title for his fantastic book. 
You know I am no great admirer of the mod- 
ern French school of writers. The tales of 
Paul de Kock seem to me like obscene stories 
told at dinner-tables. It has been truly said 
of him, that he is not only populaire^ but popu^ 
lacier ; and rather harshly of George Sand 
and Victor Hugo, that their works stand like 


to8 Hyperion 

fortifications, well built and well supplied with 
warlike munitions ; but ineffectual against the 
Grand Army of God, which marches onward, 
as if nothing had happened. In surveying a 
national literature, the point you must start 
from is national character. That lets you into 
many a secret. The most prominent trait in 
the French character is love of amusement 
and excitement ; and ” 

“I should say, rather, the fear of ennui,” 
interrupted Flemming. “ Some one has said, 
with a great deal of truth, that the gentry of 
France rush into Paris to escape from ennui, as, 
in the noble days of chivalry, the defenceless 
inhabitants of the champaign fled into the cas- 
tles at the approach of some plundering knight 
or lawless baron : forsaking the inspired twi- 
light of their native groves, for the luxurious 
shades of the royal gardens. What do you 
think of that.?” 

The Baron replied, with a smile : — 

“ There is only one Paris ; and out of Paris 
there is no salvation for decent people.” 

Thus conversing of many things sat the two 
friends under the linden-trees on the Rent- 
Tower, till gradually the crowd disappeared 
from the garden, and the objects around them 


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109 


grew indistinct, in the fading twilight. Be- 
tween them and the amber-colored western 
sky, the dense foliage of the trees looked heavy 
and hard as if cast in bronze ; and already the 
evening stars hung like silver lamps in the 
towering branches of that Tree of Life, brought 
more than two centuries ago from its primeval 
paradise in America, to beautify the gardens 
of the Palatinate. 

“I take a mournful pleasure in gazing at 
that tree,” said Flemming, as they rose to 
depart. ‘‘It stands there so straight and tall, 
with iron bands around its noble trunk and 
limbs, in silent majesty, or whispering only in 
its native tongue, and freighting the homeward 
wind with sighs ! It reminds me of some cap- 
tive monarch of a savage tribe, brought over 
the vast ocean for a show, and chained in the 
public market-place of the city, disdainfully 
silent, or breathing only in melancholy accents 
a prayer for his native forest, a longing to be 
free.” 

“ Magnificent ! ” cried the Baron. “ I always 
experience something of the same feeling, 
when I walk through a conservatory. The 
luxuriant plants of the tropics — those illus- 
trious exotics, with their gorgeous flamingo- 


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colored blossoms, and great flapping leaves, 
like elephants’ ears — have a singular work- 
ing upon my imagination, and remind me 
of a menagerie and wild beasts kept in cages. 
But your illustration is finer ; — indeed, a 
grand figure. Put it down for an epic poem.” 


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1 1 1 


CHAPTER IV. 

A Beer-Scandal 

O N their way homeward, Flemming and 
the Baron passed through a narrow lane, 
in which was a well-known Studenten-Kneipe. 
At the door stood a young man, whom the 
Baron at once recognized as his friend Von 
Kleist. He was a student ; and universally 
acknowledged, among his young acquaintance, 
as a ‘‘devilish handsome fellow,” notwith- 
standing a tremendous scar on his cheek, and 
a cream-colored mustache as soft as the silk 
of Indian corn. In short, he was a renowner, 
and a duellist. 

“ What are you doing here. Von Kleist ? ” 

“ Ah, my dear Baron ! Is it you } Come 
in ; come in. You shall see some sport. A 
Fox-Commerce is on foot, and a regular Beer- 
Scandal.” 

“ Shall we go in, Flemming } ” 

“ Certainly. I should like to see how these 
things are managed in Heidelberg. You are 


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a baron, and I am a stranger. It is of no 
consequence what you and I do, as the king’s 
fool Angeli said to the poet Bautru, urging 
him to put on his hat at the royal dinner- 
table.” 

William Lilly, the Astrologer, says, in his 
Autobiography, that, when he was committed 
to the guard-room in Whitehall, he thought 
himself in hell ; for “ some were sleeping, oth- 
ers swearing, others smoking tobacco ; and 
in the chimney of the room there were two 
bushels of broken tobacco-pipes, and almost 
half a load of ashes.” What he would have 
thought, if he had peeped into this Heidelberg 
Studenten-Kneipe, I know not. He certainly 
would not have thought himself in heaven ; 
unless it were a Scandinavian heaven. The 
windows were open ; and yet so dense was the 
atmosphere with the smoke of tobacco and the 
fumes of beer, that the tallow candles burned 
but dimly. A crowd of students were sitting 
at three long tables, in the large hall ; a med- 
ley of fellows, known at German universities 
under the cant names of Old-Ones, Mossy- 
Heads, Princes of Twilight, and Pomatum- 
Stallions. They were smoking, drinking, sing- 
ing, screaming, and discussing the great Laws 


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113 

of the Broad-Stone and the Gutter. They 
had a great deal to say, likewise, about Besens, 
and Zobels, and Poussades ; and, if they had 
been charged for the noise they made, as trav- 
ellers used to be in the old Dutch taverns, they 
would have a longer bill to pay for that than 
for their beer. 

In a large arm-chair, upon the middle table, 
sat one of those distinguished individuals 
known among German students as a Senior, 
or Leader of a Landsmannschaft. He was 
booted and spurred, and wore a very small 
crimson cap, and a very tight blue jacket, and 
very long hair, and a very dirty shirt. He was 
President of the night ; and, as Flemming 
entered the hall with the Baron and his friend, 
striking upon the table with a mighty broad- 
sword, he cried in a loud voice : — 

“ Silentium ! ” 

At the same moment, a door at the end of 
the hall was thrown open, and a procession of 
new-comers, or Nasty-Foxes, as they are called 
in the college dialect, entered two by two, 
looking wild, and green, and foolish. As they 
came forward, they were obliged to pass under 
a pair of naked swords, held crosswise by two 
Old-Ones, who, with pieces of burnt cork, made 


H 


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114 

an enormous pair of mustaches on the smooth 
rosy cheeks of each, as he passed beneath this 
arch of triumph. While the procession was 
entering the hall, the President lifted up his 
voice again, and began to sing the well-known 
Fox-song, in the chorus of which all present 
joined lustily. 

What comes there Irom the hill ? 

What comes there from the hill ? 

What comes there from the leathery hill ? 

Sa! Sa! 

Leathery hill ! 

What comes there from the hill t 

It is a postilion ! 

It is a postilion ! 

It is a leathery postilion I 
Sa! Sa! 

Postilion ! 

It is a postilion ! 

What brings the postilion? 

What brings the postilion ? 

What brings the leathery postilion ? 

Sa! Sa! 

Postilion ! 

What brings the postilion ? 

He bringeth us a Fox ! 

He bringeth us a Fox ! 

He bringeth us a leathery Fox ! 

Sa ! Sa ! 

Leathery Fox ! 

He bringeth us a Fox ! 


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115 


Your servant, Masters mine ! 

Your servant, Masters mine ! 

Your servant, much-honored Masters mine ! 
Sa ! Sa ! 

Much-honored Masters mine ! 

Your servant. Masters mine ! 

How does the Herr Papa? 

How does the Herr Papa ? 

How does the leathery Herr Papa ? 

Sa ! Sa ! 

Herr Papa ! 

How does the Herr Papa ? 

He reads in Cicero ! 

He reads in Cicero ! 

He reads in leathery Cicero ! 

Sa ! Sa ! 

Cicero ! 

He reads in Cicero ! 

How does the Frau Mamma ? 

How does the Frau Mamma ? 

How does the leathery Frau Mamma? 

Sa ! Sa ! 

Frau Mamma ! 

How does the Frau Mamma ? 

She makes the Papa tea ! 

She makes the Papa tea ! 

She makes tlie Papa leathery tea ! 

Sa ! Sa ! 

Leathery tea ! 

She makes the Papa tea ! 


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1 16 


How does the Mamsell Soeur ? 

How does the Mamsell Soeur ? 

How does the leathery Mamsell Soeur ? 
Sa ! Sa ! 

Mamsell Soeur ! 

How does the Mamsell Soeur ? 

She knits the Papa socks ! 

She knits the Papa socks ! 

See knits the Papa leathery socks I 
Sa ! Sa ! 

Leathery socks ! 

She knits the Papa socks ! 

How does the Herr Rector ? 

How does the Herr Rector ? 

How does the leathery Herr Rector ? 
Sa! Sa! 

Herr Rector ! 

How does the Herr Rector ? 

He calls the scholar, Boy ! 

He calls the scholar, Boy ! 

He calls the scholar, leathery Boy ! 

Sa ! Sa ! 

Leathery Boy ! 

He calls the scholar. Boy ! 

And smokes the Fox tobacco ! 

And smokes the Fox tobacco ! 

And smokes the leathery Fox tobacco I 
Sa! Sa! 

Fox tobacco ! 

And smokes the Fox tobacco I 


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117 


A little, Masters mine ! 

A little, Masters mine ! 

A little, much-honored Masters mine ! 
Sa ! Sa ! 

Much-honored Masters mine ! 

A little, masters mine ! 

Then let him fill a pipe ! 

Then let him fill a pipe ! 

Then let him fill a leathery pipe I 
Sa! Sa! 

Leathery pipe ! 

Then let him fill a pipe ! 

O Lord ! it makes me sick ! 

O Lord ! it makes me sick ! 

O Lord ! it makes me leathery sick I 
Sa! Sa! 

Leathery sick ! 

O Lord ! it makes me sick ! 

Then let him throw it off ! 

Then let him throw it off ! 

Then let him throw it leathery off 1 
Sa ! Sa ! 

Leathery off ! 

Then let him throw it off ! 

Now I again am well ! 

Now I again am well ! 

Now I again am leathery well 1 
Sa ! Sa ! 

Leathery well ! 

Now I again am well 1 


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Hyperion 


So grows the Fox a Bursch ! 

So grows the Fox a Bursch ! 

So grows the leathery Fox a Bursch I 
Sa! Sa! 

Fox a Bursch ! 

So grows the Fox a Bursch ! 

At length the song was finished. Mean- 
while large tufts and strips of paper had been 
twisted into the hair of the Branders, as those 
are called who have been already one term at 
the University, and then at a given signal were 
set on fire, and the Branders rode round the 
table on chairs amid roars of laughter. When 
this ceremony was completed, the President 
rose and in a solemn voice pronounced a long 
discourse, in which old college jokes were min- 
gled with much parental advice to young men 
on entering life, and the whole was profusely 
garnished with select passages from the Old 
Testament. Then they all seated themselves 
at the table and the heavy beer-drinking set in, 
as among the Gods and Heroes of the old 
Northern mythology. 

‘‘ Brander ! Brander ! ” screamed a youth 
whose face was hot and flushed with supper 
and with beer ; “ Brander, I say ! Thou art a 
Doctor! No, — a Pope; — thou art a Pope^ 
by— 1" 


A Romance 


119 

These words were addressed to a pale, quiet- 
looking person, who sat opposite, and was busy- 
in making a wretched shaved poodle sit on his 
hind legs in a chair, by his master’s side, and 
hold a short clay pipe in his mouth, — a per- 
formance to which the poodle seemed nowise 
inclined. 

“ Thou art challenged ! ” replied the pale stu- 
dent, turning from his dog, who dropped the 
pipe from his mouth, and leaped under the 
table. 

Seconds were chosen on the spot ; and 
the arms ordered ; namely, six mighty gob- 
lets, or Bassglaser, filled to the brim with 
foaming beer. Three were placed before each 
duellist. 

“ Take your weapons ! ” cried one of the sec- 
onds, and each of the combatants seized a gob- 
let in his hand. 

Strike ! ” 

And the glasses rang, with a salutation like 
the crossing of swords. 

Set to ! ” 

Each set the goblet to his lips. 

« Out ! ” 

And each poured the contents down his 
throat, as if he were pouring them through a 


120 


Hyperion 


tunnel into a beer-barrel. The other two 
glasses followed in quick succession, hardly a 
long breath drawn between. The pale stu- 
dent was victorious. He was first to drain 
the third goblet. He held it for a moment 
inverted, to let the last drops fall out, and 
then, placing it quietly on the table, looked 
his antagonist in the face, and said : — 

“ Hit!” 

Then, with the greatest coolness, looking 
under the table, he whistled for his dog. His 
antagonist stopped midway in his third glass. 
Every vein in his forehead seemed bursting ; 
his eyes were wild and bloodshot, his hand 
gradually loosened its hold upon the table, and 
he sank and rolled together like a sheet of lead. 
He was drunk. 

At this moment a majestic figure came stalk- 
ing down the table, ghost-like, through the 
dim, smoky atmosphere. His coat was off, his 
neck bare, his hair wild, his eyes wide open, 
and looking straight before him, as if he saw 
some beckoning hand in the air, that others 
could not see. His left hand was upon his hip, 
and in his right he held a drawn sword ex- 
tended, and pointing downward. Regardless 
of every one, erect, and with a martial stride, he 


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I2I 


marched directly along the centre of the table, 
crushing glasses and overthrowing bottles at 
every step. The students shrank back at his 
approach ; till at length one more intoxicated, 
or more courageous, than the rest, dashed a 
glass full of beer into his face. A general 
tumult ensued, and the student with the sword 
leaped to the floor. It was Von Kleist. He 
was renowning it. In the midst of the uproar 
could be distinguished the offensive words: — 

“ Arrogant ! Absurd ! Impertinent ! Bum- 
mer Junge ! ” 

Von Kleist went home that night with no 
less than six duels on his hands. He fought 
them all out in as many days ; and came off 
with only a gash through his upper lip and 
another through his right eyelid from a dex- 
terous Suabian Schlager. 


122 



CHAPTER V. 


TAe White Lady's Slipper and the Pas- 
sion-Flower 

HAT night Emma of Ilmenau went to 



L her chamber with a heavy heart, and 
her dusky eyes were troubled with tears. She 
was one of those gentle beings who seem cre- 
ated only to love and to be loved. A shade 
of melancholy softened her character. She 
shunned the glare of daylight and of society, 
and wished to be alone. Like the evening 
primrose, her heart opened only after sun- 
set ; but bloomed through the dark night with 
sweet fragrance. Her mother, on the contrary, 
flaunted in the garish light of society. There 
was no sympathy between them. Their souls 
never approached, never understood each other, 
and words were often spoken which wounded 
deeply. And therefore Emma of Ilmenau 
went to her chamber that night with tears in 
her eyes. 

She was followed by her French chamber- 
maid, Madeleine, a native of Strasburg, who 


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123 


had grown old in the family. In her youth, 
she had been poor, — and virtuous, because 
she had never been tempted ; and now that 
she had grown old, and seen no immediate 
reward for her virtue, as is usual with weak 
minds, she despaired of Providence, and re- 
gretted she had never been tempted. Whilst 
this unfortunate personage was lighting the 
wax tapers on the toilet, and drawing the bed- 
curtains, and tattling about the room, Emma 
threw herself into an arm-chair, and, crossing 
her hands in her lap, and letting her head fall 
upon her bosom, seemed lost in a dream. 

“ Why have these gentle feelings been given 
me } ” said she in her heart. Why have I 
been born with all these warm affections, these 
ardent longings after what is good, if they 
lead only to sorrow and disappointment? I 
would love some one, — love him once and 
for ever ; — devote myself to him alone, — 
live for him, — die for him, — exist alone in 
him ! But, alas ! in all this wide world there 
is none to love me as I would be loved, — 
none whom I may love as I am capable of 
loving. How empty, how desolate, seems the 
world about me ! Why has Heaven given 
me these affections, only to fall and fade ? ” 


124 


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Alas ! poor child ! thou too must learn, like 
others, that the sublime mystery of Providence 
goes on in silence, and gives no explanation 
of itself, — no answer to our impatient ques- 
tionings ! 

Bless me, child, what ails you ? ” exclaimed 
Madeleine, perceiving that Emma paid no 
attention to her idle gossip. “ When I was of 
your age ” 

Do not talk to me now, good Madeleine. 
Leave me, I wish to be alone.” 

“Well, here is something,” continued the 
maid, taking a billet from her bosom, “ which 
I hope will enliven you. When I was of your 


“ Hush ! hush ! ” said Emma, taking the 
billet from the hard hand of Madeleine. 
“ Once more I beg you, leave me. I wish to 
be alone.” 

Madeleine took the lamp and retired slowly, 
wishing her young mistress many good nights 
and rosy dreams. Emma broke the seal of the 
note. As she read, her face became deadly 
pale, and then, quick as thought, a crimson 
blush gleamed on her cheek, and her hands 
trembled. Tenderness, pity, love, offended 
pride, the weakness and dignity of woman, 


A Romance 


125 

were all mingled in her look, changing and 
passing over her fine countenance like cloud- 
shadows. She sunk back in her chair, cover- 
ing her face with her hands, as if she would 
hide it from herself and Heaven. 

“ He loves me ! ” said she to herself ; “ loves 
me ; and is married to another, whom he 
loves not ! and dares to tell me this ! O 
never, — never, — never ! And yet he is so 
friendless and alone in this unsympathizing 
world, — and an exile, and homeless ! I can 
but pity him ; — yet I hate him, and will see 
him no more ! ” 

This short reverie of love and hate was 
broken by the sound of a clear, mellow voice, 
which, in the universal stillness of the hour, 
seemed almost like the voice of a spirit. It 
was a voice, without the accompaniment of 
any instrument, singing those beautiful lines 
which Goethe wrote on the wall of a summer- 
house at Ilmenau : — 

“ O’er all the hill- tops is quiet now ! 

In all the woodlands hearest thou 
Hardly a sound ! 

The little birds are asleep in the trees ; 

Wait ! wait \ and soon, like these, 

Sleepest thou ! ” 


126 


Hyperion 


Emma knew the voice, and started. She 
rushed to the window to close it. It was a 
beautiful night, and the stars were shining 
peacefully over the mountain of All-Saints. 
The sound of the Neckar was soft and low ; 
nightingales were singing among the brown 
shadows of the woods ; the large red moon 
shone like a ruby, in the horizon’s ample ring ; 
and golden threads of light seemed braided 
together with the rippling current of the river. 
Tall and spectral stood the white statues on 
the bridge. The outlines of the hills, the cas- 
tle, the arches of the bridge, and the spires 
and roofs of the town, were as strongly marked 
as if cut out of pasteboard. Amid this fairy 
scene, a little boat was floating silently down 
the stream. Emma closed the window hastily, 
and drew the curtains close. 

“ I hate him ; and yet I will pray for him,” 
said she, as she laid her weary head upon that 
pillow, from which, but a few months before, 
she thought she should never raise it again. 
“ O that I had died then ! I dare not love him, 
but I will pray for him ! ” 

Sweet child ! If the face of the deceiver 
comes so often between thee and Heaven, I 
tremble for thy fate ! The plant that sprang 


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127 


from Helen’s tears destroyed serpents ; — 
would that from thine might spring up heart’ s- 
ease, — some plant, at least, to destroy the ser- 
pents in thy bosom ! Believe me, upon the 
margin of celestial streams alone those simples 
grow which cure the heart-ache ! 

And this the silent stars beheld, looking 
down from heaven, and told it not again. 
This likewise the Frau Himmelauen beheld, 
looking from her chamber-window, and was 
not so discreet as the silent stars. 


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CHAPTER VI. 

Glimpses mto Cloud-Land 

HERE are many things, which, hav- 



^ ing no corporeal evidence, can be per- 
ceived and comprehended only by the discur- 
sive energies of reason. Hence the ambiguous 
nature of matter can be comprehended only by 
adulterated opinion. Matter is the principle 
of all bodies, and is stamped with the impres- 
sion of forms. Fire, air, and water derive 
their origin and principle from the scalene tri- 
angle. But the earth was created from right- 
angled triangles, of which two of the sides are 
equal. The sphere and the pyramid contain 
in themselves the figure of fire ; but the octa- 
hedron was destined to be the figure of air, and 
the icosahedron of water. The right-angled 
isosceles triangle produces from itself a square, 
and the square generates from itself the cube, 
which is the figure peculiar to earth. But the 
figure of a beautiful and perfect sphere was 
imparted to the most beautiful and perfect 


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129 


world, that it might be indigent of nothing, 
but contain all things, embracing and compre- 
hending them in itself, and thus might be 
excellent and admirable, similar to and in con- 
cord with itself, ever moving musically and 
melodiously. If I use a novel language, ex- 
cuse me. As Apuleius says, pardon must be 
granted to novelty of words, when it serves to 
illustrate the obscurity of things.” 

These words camq from the lips of the lion- 
like philosopher who has been noticed before 
in these pages. He was sitting with Flem- 
ming, smoking a long pipe. As the Baron 
said, he was indeed a strange owl ; for the owl 
is a grave bird ; a monk, who chants midnight 
mass in the great temple of Nature ; — an an- 
chorite, — a pillar saint, — the very Simeon 
Stylites of his neighborhood. Such, likewise, 
was the philosophical Professor. Solitary, but 
with a mighty current, flowed the river of his 
life, like the Nile, without a tributary stream, 
and making fertile only a single strip in the 
vast desert. His temperament had been in 
youth a joyous one ; and now, amid all his 
sorrows and privations, — for he had many, — 
he looked upon the world as a glad, bright, 
glorious world. On the many joys of life he 
6 * 


j 


130 


Hyperion 


gazed still with the eyes of childhood, from the 
far-gone Past upward, trusting, hoping ; — and 
upon its sorrows with the eyes of age, from the 
distant Future, downward, triumphant, not 
despairing. He loved solitude, and silence, 
and candle-light, and the deep midnight. 
“For,” said he, “if the morning hours are the 
wings of the day, I only fold them about me 
to sleep more sweetly ; knowing that, at its 
other extremity, the day, like the fowls of the 
air, has an epicurean morsel, — a parson’s 
nose ; and on this oily midnight my spirit rev- 
els and is glad.” 

Such was the Professor, who had been talk- 
ing in a half-intelligible strain for two hours 
or more. The Baron had fallen fast asleep in 
his chair ; but Flemming sat listening with 
excited imagination, and the' Professor con- 
tinued in the following words, which, to the 
best of his listener’s memory, seemed gleaned 
here and there from Fichte’s Destiny of 
Man, and Schubert’s History of the Soul. 

“ Life is one and universal ; its forms many 
and individual. Throughout this beautiful and 
wonderful .creation there is never-ceasing mo- 
tion, without rest by night or day, ever weav- 
ing to and fro. Swifter than a weaver’s shut- 


A Romance 


131 

tie it flies from Birth to Death, from Death to 
Birth ; from the beginning seeks the end, and 
finds it not, for the seeming end is only a dim 
beginning of a new out-going and endeavor 
after the end. As the ice upon the mountain, 
when the warm breath of the summer sun 
breathes upon it, melts, and divides into drops, 
each of which reflects an image of the sun ; 
so life, in the smile of God’s love, divides itself 
into separate forms, each bearing in it and 
reflecting an image of God’s love. Of all 
these forms the highest and most perfect in its 
God-likeness is the human soul. The vast 
cathedral of Nature is full of holy scriptures, 
and shapes of deep, mysterious meaning ; but 
all is solitary and silent there ; no bending 
knee, no uplifted eye, no lip adoring, praying. 
Into this vast cathedral comes the human soul, 
seeking its Creator ; and the universal silence 
is changed to sound, and the sound is harmo- 
nious, and has a meaning, and is compre- 
hended and felt. It was an ancient saying of 
the Persians, that the waters rush from the 
mountains and hurry forth into all the lands 
to find the Lord of the Earth ; and the flame 
of the fire, when it awakes, gazes no more up- 
on the ground, but mounts heavenward, to seek 


132 


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the Lord of Heaven ; and here and there the 
Earth has built the great watch-towers of the 
mountains, and they lift their heads far up 
into the sky, and gaze ever upward and around, 
to see if the Judge of the World comes not! 
Thus in Nature herself, without man, there lies 
a waiting and hoping, a looking and yearning, 
after an unknown somewhat. Y es ; when, 
above there, where the mountain lifts its head 
over all others, that it may be alone with the 
clouds and storms of heaven, the lonely eagle 
looks forth into the gray dawn, to see if the 
day comes not ; when, by the mountain tor- 
rent, the brooding raven listens to hear if the 
chamois is returning from his nightly pasture 
in the valley ; and when the soon uprising sun 
calls out the spicy odors of the thousand 
flowers, the Alpine flowers, with heaven’s deep 
blue and the blush of sunset on their leaves ; — 
then there awake in Nature, and the soul of 
man can see and comprehend them, an expec- 
tation and a longing for a future revelation 
of God’s majesty. They awake, also, when, in 
the fulness of life, field and forest rest at noon, 
and through the stillness are heard only the 
song of the grasshopper and the hum of the 
bee ; and when at evening the singing lark up 


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133 


from the sweet-smelling vineyards rises, or in 
the later hours of night Orion puts on his shin- 
ing armor, to walk forth into the fields of heav^ 
en. But in the soul of man alone is this long- 
ing changed to certainty, and fulfilled. For, 
lo ! the light of the sun and the stars shined 
through the air, and is nowhere visible and 
seen ; the planets hasten with more than the 
speed of the storm through infinite space, and 
their footsteps are not heard ; but where the 
sunlight strikes the firm surface of the planets, 
where the storm-wind smites the wall of the 
mountain cliff, there is the one seen and the 
other heard. Thus is the glory of God made 
visible, and may be seen, where in the soul of 
man it meets its likeness changeless and stead- 
fast. Thus, then, stands Man ; — a mountain 
on the boundary between two worlds ; — its 
foot in one, its summit far-rising into the other. 
From this summit the manifold landscape of 
life is visible, the way of the Past and Perish- 
able, which we have left behind us ; and as we 
evermore ascend, bright glimpses of the day- 
break of Eternity beyond us ! ” 

Flemming would fain have interrupted this 
discourse at times, to answer and inquire ; but 
the Professor went on, warming and glowing 


134 


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more and more. At length there was a short 
pause, and Flemming said : — 

“All these indefinite longings, these yearn- 
ings after an unknown somewhat, I have felt 
and still feel within me ; but not yet their ful- 
filment.” 

“That is because you have not faith,” an- 
swered the Professor. “The Present is an age 
of doubt, and disbelief, and darkness ; out of 
which shall arise a clear and bright Hereafter. 
In the second part of Goethe’s Faust, there is 
a grand and striking scene, where in the classi- 
cal Walpurgis Night, on the Pharsalian Plains, 
the mocking Mephistopheles sits down between 
the solemn antique Sphinxes, and boldly ques- 
tions them, and reads their riddles. The red 
light of innumerable watch-fires glares round 
about, and shines upon the terrible face of the 
arch-scofier ; while on either side, severe, ma- 
jestic, solemnly serene, we behold the gigantic 
forms of the children of Chimaera, half buried 
in the sand, their mild eyes gazing fixedly, as 
if they heard through the midnight the swift- 
rushing wings of the Stymphalides, striving to 
outstrip the speed of Alcides’ arrows ! Angry 
Griffins are near them ; and not far are Sirens, 
singing their wondrous songs from the rocking 


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135 


branches of the willow-trees ! Even thus does 
a scoffing and unbelieving Present sit down 
between an unknown Future and a too believ- 
ing Past, and question and challenge the gi- 
gantic forms of Faith, half buried in the sands 
of Time, and gazing forward steadfastly into 
the night, whilst sounds of anger and voices 
of delight alternate vex and soothe the ear 
of man ! — But the time will come when the 
soul of man shall return again childlike and 
trustful to its faith in God, and look God in 
the face and die ; for it is an old saying, full of 
deep, mysterious meaning, that he must die 
who hath looked upon a God. And this is 
the fate of the soul, that it should die contin- 
ually. No sooner here on earth does it awake 
to its peculiar being, than it struggles to be- 
hold and comprehend the Spirit of Life. In 
the first dim twilight of its existence, it beholds 
this spirit, is pervaded by its energies, — is 
quick and creative like the spirit itself, and yet 
slumbers away into death after having seen it. 
But the image it has seen remains ; in the 
eternal procreation, as a homogeneal existence, 
is again renewed ; and the seeming death, 
from moment to moment, becomes the source 
of kind after kind of existences in ever-ascend- 


136 


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ing series. The soul aspires ever onward to 
love and to behold. It sees the image more 
perfect in the brightening twilight of the dawn, 
in the ever higher-rising sun. It sleeps again, 
dying in the clearer vision ; but the image 
seen remains as a permanent kind ; and the 
slumberer awakes anew and ever higher after 
its own image, till at length, in the full blaze 
of noonday, a being comes forth, which, like 
the eagle, can behold the sun and die not. 
Then both live on, even when this bodily 
element, the mist and vapor through which 
the young eagle gazed, dissolves and falls to 
earth.” 

“ I am not sure that I understand you,” said 
Flemming ; “ but if I do, you mean to say, 
that, as the body continually changes and takes 
unto itself new properties, and is not the same 
to-day as yesterday, so likewise the soul lays 
aside its idiosyncrasies, and is changed by ac- 
quiring new powers, and thus may be said to 
die. And hence, properly speaking, the soul 
lives always in the Present, and has, and can 
have, no Future ; for the Future becomes the 
Present, and the soul that then lives in me is 
a higher and more perfect soul; and so om 
ward for evermore” 


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137 


“ 1 mean what I say,” continued the Profes- 
sor ; “ and can find no more appropriate lan- 
guage to express my meaning than that which 
I have used. But, as I said before, pardon 
must be granted to the novelty of words, when 
it serves to illustrate the obscurity of things. 
And I think you will see clearly from what I 
have said, that this earthly life, when seen 
hereafter from heaven, will seem like an hour 
passed long ago, and dimly remembered ; — 
that long, laborious, full of joys and sorrows 
as it is, it will then have dwindled down to a 
mere point, hardly visible to the far-reaching 
ken of the disembodied spirit. But the spirit 
itself soars onward. And thus death is neither 
an end nor a beginning. It is a transition, 
not from one existence to another, but from 
one state of existence to another. No link is 
broken in the chain of being ; any more than 
in passing from infancy to manhood, from man- 
hood to old age. There are seasons of reverie 
and deep abstraction, which seem to me analo- 
gous to death. The soul gradually loses its 
consciousness of what is passing around it ; 
and takes no longer cognizance of objects 
which are near. It seems for the moment to 
have dissolved its connection with the body. 


Hyperion 


138 

It has passed, as it were, into another state of 
being. It lives in another world. It has 
flown over lands and seas ; and holds com- 
munion with those it loves, in distant regions 
of the earth, and the more distant heaven. It 
sees familiar faces, and hears beloved voices, 
which to the bodily senses are no longer visi- 
ble and audible. And this likewise is death ; 
save that, when we die, the soul returns no 
more to the dwelling it has left.” 

“You seem to take it for granted,” inter- 
rupted Flemming, “ that, in our reveries, the 
soul really goes out of the body into distant 
places, instead of summoning up their sem- 
blance within itself by the power of memory 
and imagination.” 

“Something I must take for granted,” re- 
plied the Professor. “We will not discuss that 
point now. I speak not without forethought. 
Just observe what a glorious thing human life 
is, when seen in this light ; and how glorious 
man’s destiny. I am ; thou art ; he is ! seems 
but a school-boy’s conjugation. But therein 
lies a mysterious meaning. We behold all 
round about us one vast union, in which no 
man can labor for himself, without laboring at 
the same tinie for all others ; a glimpse of 


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139 


truth, which, by the universal harmony of 
things, becomes an inward benediction, and 
lifts the soul mightily upward. Still more so, 
when a man regards himself as a necessary 
member of this union. The feeling of our 
dignity and our power grows strong, when we 
say to ourselves : My being is not objectless 
and in vain ; I am a necessary link in the 
great chain, which, from the full development 
of consciousness in the first man, reaches for- 
ward into eternity. All the great and wise 
and good among mankind, all the benefactors 
of the human race, whose names I read in 
the world’s history, and the still . greater num- 
ber of those whose good deeds have outlived 
their names, — all those have labored for me. 
I have entered into their harvest. I walk the 
green earth which they inhabited. I tread in 
their footsteps, from which blessings grow. I 
can undertake the sublime task which they 
once undertook, the task of making our com- 
mon brotherhood wiser and happier. I can 
build forward, where they were forced to leave 
off ; and bring nearer to perfection the great 
edifice which they left uncompleted. And at 
2ength I, too, must leave it, and go hence. O, 
this is the sublimest thought of ail ! I can 


140 


Hyperion 


never finish the noble task ; therefore, so sure 
as this task is my destiny, I can never cease to 
work, and consequently never cease to be. 
What men call death cannot break off this 
task, which is never-ending ; consequently no 
period is set to my being, and I am eternal. 
I lift my head boldly to the threatening moun- 
tain-peaks, and to the roaring cataract, and 
to the storm-clouds swimming in the fire- 
sea overhead, and say, — I am eternal and 
defy your power ! Break, break over me ! 
and thou Earth, and thou Heaven mingle 
in the wild tumult ! and ye Elements, foam 
and rage, and destroy this atom of dust, 
— this body, which I call mine ! My will 
alone, with its fixed purpose, shall hover 
brave and triumphant over the ruins of the 
universe ; for I have comprehended my des- 
tiny ; and it is more durable than ye ! It 
is eternal ; and I, who recognize it, I likewise 
am eternal ! Tell me, my friend, have you no 
faith in this ? ” 

“I have,” answered Flemming, and there 
was another pause. He then said : — 

“ I have listened to you patiently and with- 
out interruption. Now listen to me. You com- 
plain of the scepticism of the age. This is 


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141 

one form in which the philosophic spirit of 
the age presents itself Let me tell you, 
that another form which it assumes is that 
of poetic reverie. Plato of old had dreams 
like these; and the Mystics of the Middle 
Ages ; and still their disciples walk in the 
cloud-land and dream-land of this poetic phi- 
losophy. Pleasant and cool upon their souls 
lie the shadows of the trees under which Plato 
taught. From their whispering leaves comes 
wafted across the noise of populous centuries 
a solemn and mysterious sound, which to them 
is the voice of the Soul of the World. All 
nature has become spiritualized and transfig- 
ured ; and, wrapped in beautiful, vague dreams 
of the real and the ideal, they live in this green 
world, like the little child in the German tale, 
who sits by the margin of a woodland lake, 
and hears the blue heaven and the branches 
overhead dispute with their reflection in the 
water, which is the reality and which the 
image. I willingly confess that such day- 
dreams as these appeal strongly to my imagi- 
nation. Visitants and attendants are they of 
those lofty souls, which, soaring ever higher 
and higher, build themselves nests under the 
very eaves of the stars, forgetful that they can* 


142 


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not live on air, but must descend to earth for 
food. Yet I recognize them as day-dreams 
only ; as shadows, not substantial things. 
What I mainly dislike in the New Philosophy 
is the cool impertinence with which an old 
idea folded in a new garment looks you in the 
face and pretends not to know you, though you 
have been familiar friends from childhood. I 
remember an English author, who, in speak- 
ing of your German philosophies, says very 
wisely : ' Often a proposition of inscrutable and 
dread aspect, when resolutely grappled with, 
and torn from its shady den, and its bristling 
intrenchments of uncouth terminology, and 
dragged forth into the open light of day, to be 
seen by the natural eye and tried by merely 
human understanding, proves to be a very 
harmless truth, familiar to us from old, some- 
times so familiar as to be a truism. Too fre- 
quently the anxious novice is reminded of 
Dryden in the Battle of the Books ; there is a 
helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic ; and 
within it, at the farthest corner, is a head no 
bigger than a walnut.’ — Can you believe that 
these words ever came from the pen of Thomas 
Carlyle ? He has himself taken up the un- 
couth terminology, of late ; and many pure, 


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143 


simple minds are much offended at it. They 
seem to take it as a personal insult. They are 
angry, and deny the just meed of praise. It 
is, however, hardly worth while to lose our 
presence of mind. Let us rather profit as we 
may, even from this spectacle, and recognize 
the monarch in his masquerade. For, hooded 
and wrapped about with that strange and an- 
tique garb, there walks a kingly, a most royal 
soul, even as the Emperor Charles walked 
amid solemn cloisters under a monk’s cowl, — 
a monarch still in soul. Such things are not 
new in the history of the world. Ever and 
anon they sweep over the earth, and blow 
them selves out soon ; and then there is quiet 
for a season, and the atmosphere of Truth 
seemj; more serene. Why would you preach 
to the wind ? Why reason with thunder- 
storms ? Better sit quiet, and see them 
pass over like a pageant, cloudy, superb, and 
vast.” 

The Professor smiled self-complacently, but 
said not a word. Flemming continued : — 

“ I will add no more than this ; — there are 
many speculations in literature, philosophy, 
and religion, which, though pleasant to walk 
in, and lying under the shadow of great names. 


144 Hyperion 

yet lead to no important result. They resem* 
ble rather those roads in the Western forests 
of my native land, which, though broad and 
pleasant at first, and lying beneath the shadow 
of great branches, finally dwindle to a squirrel 
track, and run up a tree ! ” 

The Professor hardly knew whether he 
should laugh or be offended at this sally ; and, 
laying his hand upon Flemming’s arm, he said 
seriously : — 

Believe me, my young friend, the time will 
come when you will think more wisely on 
these things. And with you, I trust, that time 
will soon come ; since it moves more speedily 
with some than with others. For what is 
Time.? The shadow on the dial, — the strik- 
ing of the clock, — the running of the sand, 
— day and night, — summer and winter, — 
months, years, centuries; — these are but 
arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of 
Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of 
the soul. If not this, then tell me, what is 
Time.?” 

The high and animated tone of voice in 
which the Professor uttered these words 
aroused the Baron from his sleep; and, not 
distinctly comprehending what was said, but 


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145 

thinking the Professor asked what time it was, 
he innocently exclaimed : — 

“ I should think it must be near midnight ! ” 
This somewhat disconcerted the Professor, 
who took his leave soon afterward. When he 
was gone, the Baron said : — 

“ Excuse me for treating your guest so cava- 
lierly. His philosophy annoyed me not a lit- 
tle ; and I took refuge in sleep. One would 
think, to judge by the language of this sect, 
that they alone saw any beauty in Nature ; 
and when I hear one of them discourse, I am 
instantly reminded of Goethe’s Baccalaureus, 
when he exclaims : ‘ The world was not, before 
I created it ; I brought the sun up out of the 
sea ; with me began the changeful course of 
the moon ; the day decked itself on my ac- 
count ; the earth grew green and blossomed 
to meet me ; at my nod, in that first night, the 
pomp of all the stars developed itself; who 
but I set you free from all the bonds of Philis- 
ter-like, contracting thoughts } I, however, 
emancipated as my mind assures me I am 
gladly pursue my inward light, advance boldly 
in a transport peculiarly my own, the bright 
before me, and the dark behind ! ’ — Do you not 
see a -^-esemblance ? O, they might be modest 
7 I 


146 


Hyperion 


enough to confess that one straggling ray 
of light may, by some accident, reach the 
blind eyes of even us poor, benighted hea- 
then ! ” 

“ Alas ! how little veneration we have ! ” 
said Flemming. I could not help closing 
the discussion with a jest An ill-timed levity 
often takes me by surprise. On all such 
occasions, I think of a scene at the University, 
where, in the midst of a grave discussion on 
the possibility of Absolute Motion, a scholar 
said he had seen a rock split open, from which 
sprang a toad, who could not be supposed to 
have any knowledge of the external world, 
and consequently his motion must have been 
absolute. The learned Professor who presid- 
ed on that occasion was hardly more startled 
and astonished than was our learned Profes- 
sor, five minutes ago. But come ; wind up 
your watch, and let us go to bed.” 

“By the way,” said the Baron, “did you 
mind what a curious head he has ? There are 
two crowns upon it.” 

“ That is a sign,” replied Flemming, “ that 
he will eat his bread in two kingdoms.” 

“ I think the poor man would be very thank- 
ful,” said the Baron, with a smile, “ if he were 


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H7 

always sure of eating it in one. He is what 
the Transcendentalists call a God-intoxicated 
man ; and I advise him, as Santeul advised 
Bossuet, to go to Patmos and write a new 
Apocalypse.” 


148 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER VII. 

Mill-Wheels and other Wheels 
FEW days after this, the Baron received 



dr\. letters from his sister, telling him that 
her physicians had prescribed a few weeks at 
the Baths of Ems, and urging him to meet her 
there before the fashionable season. 

“ Come,” said he to Flemming ; “ make this 
short Journey with me. We will pass a few 
pleasant days at Ems, and visit the other wa- 
tering-places of Nassau. It will drive away 
the melancholy day-dreams that haunt you. 
Perhaps some future bride is even now wait- 
ing for you, with dim presentiments and urn 
defined longings, at the Serpent’s Bath.” 

Or some widow of Ems, with a cork leg ! ” 
said Flemming, smiling ; and then added, in a 
tone of voice half jest, half earnest, “Certainly ; 
let us go in pursuit of her : — 


‘ Whoe’er she be, 

That not impossible she, 

That shall command my heart and me : 


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149 


‘ Where’er she lie, 

Hidden from mortal eye, 

In shady leaves of destiny.’” 

They started in the afternoon for Frankfort, 
pursuing their way slowly along the lovely 
Bergstrasse, famed throughout Germany for its 
beauty. They passed the ruined house where 
Martin Luther lay concealed after the Diet of 
Worms, and through the village of Hand- 
schuhsheimer, as old as the days of King 
Pepin the Short, — a hamlet, lying under the 
hills, half buried in blossoms and green leaves. 
Close on the right rose the mountains of the 
mysterious Odenwald ; and on the left lay the 
Neckar, like a steel bow in the meadow. Far- 
ther westward, a thin, smoky vapor betrayed 
the course of the Rhine ; beyond which, like 
a troubled sea, ran the blue, billowy Alsatian 
hills. Song of birds, and sound of evening 
bells, and fragrance of sweet blossoms, filled 
the air; and silent and slow sank the broad 
red sun, half hidden amid folding clouds. 

“ We shall not pass the night at Weinheim,” 
said the Baron to the postilion, who had dis- 
mounted to walk up the hill leading to the 
town. “You may drive to the mill in the 
valley of Birkenau.” 


Hyperion 


S50 

The postillion seized one of his fat horses 
by the tail, and swung himself up to his seat 
again They rattled over the paved streets 
of Weinheim, and took no heed of the host of 
the Golden Eagle, who stood so invitingly at 
the door of his own inn ; and the ruins of 
Burg Windeck, above there, on its mountain 
throne, frowned at them for hurrying by, with- 
out staying to do him homage. 

The old ruin looks well from the valley,’^ 
said the Baron ; “ but let us beware of climb- 
ing that steep hill. Most travellers are like 
children ; they must needs touch whatever 
they behold. They climb up to every old 
broken tooth of a castle which they find on 
their way ; get a toilsome ascent and hot sun- 
shine for their pains, and come down wearied 
and disappointed. I trust we are wiser.” 

They crossed the bridge, and turned up the 
stream, passing under an arch of stone which 
serves as a gateway to this enchanted valley 
of Birkenau. A cool and lovely valley, shut 
in by high hills ; — shaded by alder-trees and 
tall poplars, under which rushes the Wech- 
snitz, a noisy mountain-brook, that ever and 
anon puts its broad shoulder to the wheel of 
a mill, and shows that it can labor as well as 


A Romance 


151 

/augh. At one of these mills they stopped for 
the night. 

A mill forms as characteristic a feature in 
the romantic German landscape as in the ro- 
mantic German tale. It is not only a mill, but 
likewise an alehouse and rural inn ; so that 
the associations it suggests are not of labor 
only, but also of pleasure. It stands in the 
narrow defile, with its picturesque thatched 
roof ; thither throng the peasants, of a holi- 
day ; and there are rustic dances under the 
trees. 

In the twilight of the fast-approaching sum- 
mer night, the Baron and Flemming walked 
forth along the borders of the stream. As 
they heard it rushing and gushing among the 
stones and tangled roots, and the great wheel 
turning in the current, with its never-ceasing 
plash ! plash ! it brought to their minds that 
exquisite, simple song of Goethe, the Youth 
and the Mill-brook. It was for the moment a 
nymph which sang to them in the voice of the 
waters. 

“ I am persuaded,” said Flemming, “ that, in 
order fully to understand and feel the popular 
poetry of Germany, one must be familiar with 
the German landscape. Many sweet little 


152 


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poems are the outbreaks of momentary feel- 
ings ; — words to which the song of birds, the 
rustling of leaves, and the gurgle of cool 
waters form the appropriate music. Or per- 
haps I should say they are words which man 
has composed to the music of nature. Can 
you not, even now, hear this brooklet telling 
you how it is on its way to the mill, where at 
daybreak the miller’s daughter opens her win- 
dow, and comes down to bathe her face in its 
stream, and her bosom is so full and white, 
that it kindles the glow of love in the cool 
waters ? ” 

“A most delightful ballad, truly,” said the 
Baron. “ But, like many others of our little 
songs, it requires a poet to feel and understand 
it. Sing them in the valley and woodland 
shadows, and under the leafy roofs of garden 
walks, and at night, and alone, as they were 
written. Sing them not in the loud world, 
— for the loud world laughs such things to 
scorn. It is Muller who says, in that little 
song where the maiden bids the moon good 
evening : — 

‘ This song was made to be sung at night, 

And he who reads it in broad daylight 
Will never read the mystery right ; 

And yet it is childlike easy ! ’ 


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153 


He has written a great many pretty songs, in 
which the momentary, indefinite longings and 
impulses of the soul of man find an expression. 
He calls them the Songs of a Wandering 
Hom-player. There is one among them much 
to our present purpose. He expresses in it the 
feeling of unrest and desire of motion, which 
the sight and sound of running waters often 
produce in us. It is entitled, ‘ Whither ? ’ and 
is worth repeating to you. 


‘ I heard a brooklet gushing 
From its rocky fountain near, 
Down into the valley rushing. 
So fresh and wondrous clear, 

‘ I know not what came o’er me. 
Nor who the counsel gave ; 
But I must hasten downward. 
All with my pilgrim-stave. 


‘ Downward, and ever farther. 

And ever the brook beside ; 
And ever fresher murmured, 

And ever clearer, the tide. 

‘ Is this the way I was going ? 

Whither, O brooklet ? say ! 
Thou hast, with thy soft murmur. 
Murmured my senses away. 

7 * 


154 


Hyperion 


* What do I say of a murmur ? 

That can no murmur be ; 

*T is the water-nymphs, that are singing 
Their roundelays under me. 

* Let them sing, my friend, let them murmur 

And wander merrily near ; 

The wheels of a mill are going 
In every brooklet clear.’ ” 


‘‘There you have the poetic reverie,” said 
Flemming, “and the dull prose commentary 
and explanation in matter of fact. The song 
is pretty ; and was probably suggested by some 
such scene as this which we are now behold- 
ing. Doubtless, all your old national traditions 
sprang up in the popular mind as this song in 
the poet’s.” 

“Your opinion is certainly correct,” an- 
swered the Baron ; “ and yet all this play of 
poetic fancy does not prevent me from feeling 
the chill night-air and the pangs of hunger. 
Let us go back to the mill, and see what our 
landlady has for supper. Did you observe what 
a loud, sharp voice she has ? ” 

“ People always have, who live in mills, and 
near waterfalls.” 

On the following morning, they emerged 
unwillingly from the green, dark valley, and 


A Romance 


155 


journeyed along the levei nignway to Frank- 
fort, where in the evening they heard the glo- 
rious Don Giovanni of Mozart. Of all operas, 
this was Flemming’s favorite. What raptu- 
rous flights of sound ! what thrilling, pathetic 
chimes ! what wild, joyous revelry of passion ! 
what a delirium of sense ! what an expression 
of agony and woe ! — all the feelings of suffer- 
ing and rejoicing humanity sympathized with 
and finding a voice in those tones. Flemming 
and the Baron listened with ever increasing 
delight. 

How wonderful this is ! ” exclaimed Flem- 
ming, transported by his feelings. How the 
chorus swells and dies, like the wind of sum- 
mer ! How those passages of mysterious im- 
port seem to wave to and fro, like the swaying 
branches of trees ; from which anon some soli- 
tary sweet voice darts off like a bird, and floats 
away and revels in the bright, warm sun- 
shine ! and then mark ! how, amid the chorus 
of a hundred voices and a hundred instru- 
ments, of flutes, and drums, and trumpets, this 
universal shout and whirlwind of the vexed 
air, you can so clearly distinguish the melan- 
choly vibration of a single string, touched by 
the finger, — a mournful, sobbing sound ! Ah, 


Hyperion 


156 

this is indeed human life ! where, in the rush^ 
ing, noisy crowd, and amid sounds of gladness, 
and a thousand mingling emotions, distinctly 
audible to the ear of thought, are the pulsations 
of some melancholy string of the heart, touched 
by an invisible hand.” 

Then came, in the midst of these excited 
feelings, the ballet, drawing its magic net 
about the soul. And soon, from the tangled 
yet harmonious mazes of the dance, came 
forth a sylph-like form, her scarf floating be- 
hind her, as if she were fanning the air with 
gauze-like wings. Noiseless as a feather or a 
snow-flake falls, did her feet touch the earth. 
She seemed to float in the air, and the floor to 
bend and wave under her, as a branch when 
a bird alights upon it and takes wing again. 
Loud and rapturous applause followed each 
wonderful step, each voluptuous movement ; 
and, with a flushed cheek and burning eye, 
and bosom panting to be free, stood the grace- 
fully majestic figure for a moment still, and 
then the winged feet of the swift dancing-girls 
glanced round her, and she was lost again in 
the throng. 

“ How truly exquisite this is ! ” exclaimed 
the Baron, after joining loudly in the applause, 


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“ What a noble figure ! What grace ! what 
attitudes ! How much soul in every motion ! 
how much expression in every gesture ! I 
assure you, it produces upon me the same 
effect as a beautiful poem. It is a poem. 
Every step is a word ; and the whole together 
a poem ! ” 

The Baron and Flemming were delighted 
with the scene ; and at the same time exceed- 
ingly amused with the countenance of an old 
prude in the next box, who seemed to look up- 
on the whole magic show with such feelings as 
Michal, Saul’s daughter, experienced, when 
she looked from her window and saw King 
David dancing and leaping with his scanty 
garments. 

After all,” said Flemming, ‘‘the old French 
priest was not so far out of the way, when he 
said, in his coarse dialect, ‘ The dance is the 
Devil’s procession ; and paint and ornaments, 
the whetting of the Devil’s sword ; and the 
ring that is made in dancing, the Devil’s 
grindstone, whereon he sharpens his sword ; 
and finally, — a ballet is the povnp and mass 
of the Devil, and whosoever entereth therein 
entereth into his pomp and mass ; for the wo- 
man who singeth is the prioress of the Devil, 


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158 

and they that answer are clerks, and they that 
look on are parishioners, and the cymbals and 
flutes are the bells, and the musicians that 
play are the ministers of the Devil.’ ” 

“No doubt, this good lady near us thinks so 
likewise,” answered the Baron, laughing ; “ but 
she likes it for all that.” 

When the play was over, the Baron begged 
Flemming to sit still till the crowd had gone. 

“ I have a strange fancy,” said he, “ when- 
ever I come to the theatre, to see the end of 
all things. When the crowd is gone, and the 
curtain raised again to air the house, and the 
lamps are all out, save here and there one be- 
hind the scenes, the contrast with what has 
gone before is most impressive. Every thing 
wears a dream-like aspect. The empty boxes 
and stalls, the silence, the smoky twilight, and 
the magic scene dismantled, produce in me a 
strange, mysterious feeling. It is like a dim 
reflection of a theatre in water or in a dusty 
mirror, and reminds me of some of Hoffmann’s 
wild tales. It is a^ practical moral lesson, a 
commentary on the play, and makes the show 
complete.” 

It was truly as he said ; only tenfold more 
desolate, solemn, and impressive ; and pro- 


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duced upon the mind the effect we experience 
when slumber is suddenly broken, and dreams 
and realities mingle, and we know not yet 
whether we sleep or wake. As they at length 
passed out through the dimly-lighted passage, 
they heard a vulgar-looking fellow, with a sen- 
sual face and shaggy whiskers, say to some 
persons who were standing near him, and 
seemed to be hangers-on of the play-house : — 

“ I shall run her six nights at Munich, and 
then take her on to Vienna.” 

Flemming thought he was speaking of some 
favorite horse. He was speaking of his beau- 
tiful wife, the ballet-dancer. 


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CHAPTER VIII. 


Goethe 



HAT most interested our travellers in 


^ V the ancient city of Frankfort was 
neither the opera, nor the Ariadne of Danneck- 
er, but the house in which Goethe was born, 
and the scenes he frequented in his childhood 
and remembered in his old age. Such, for 
example, are the walks around the city, outside 
the moat ; the bridge over the Main, with the 
golden cock on the cross, which the poet be- 
held and marvelled at when a boy ; the cloister 
of the Barefooted Friars, through which he 
stole with mysterious awe to sit by the oilcloth- 
covered table of old Rector Albrecht ; and the 
garden in which his grandfather walked up 
and down among fruit-trees and rose-bushes, 
in long morning-gown, black velvet cap, and 
the antique leather gloves, which he annu- 
ally received as Mayor on Pipers-Dooms- 
day representing a kind of middle person- 
age between Alcinoiis and Laertes. Thus, O 


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Genius ! are thy footprints hallowed ; and the 
star shines for ever over the place of thy na- 
tivity. 

“Your English critics may rail as they list,” 
said the Baron, while he and Flemming were 
returning from a stroll in the leafy gardens 
outside the moat ; “ but, after all, Goethe was 
a magnificent old fellow. Only think of his 
life ; his youth of passion, alternately aspiring 
and desponding, stormy, impetuous, headlong ; 
— his romantic manhood, in which passion 
assumes the form of strength ; assiduous, 
careful, toiling, without haste, without rest ; — 
and his sublime old age, — the age of serene 
and classic repose, where he stands like Atlas, 
as Claudian has painted him in the Battle of 
the Giants, holding the world aloft upon his 
head, the ocean-streams hard frozen in his 
hoary locks.” 

“ A good illustration of what the world calls 
his indifferentism.” 

“ And do you know I rather like this indif- 
ferentism ? Did you never have the misfortune 
to live in a community, where a difficulty in 
the parish seemed to announce the end of the 
world ? or to know one of the benefactors of 
the human race, in the very storm and pres- 


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sure period of his indiscreet enthusiasm ? If 
you have, I think you will see something 
beautiful in the calm and dignified attitude 
which the old philosopher assumes.” 

“It is a pity that his admirers had not a 
little of this philosophic coolness. It amuses 
me to read the various epithets which they 
apply to him : — The Dear, dear Man ! The 
Life-enjoying Man ! The All-sided One ! 
The Representative of Poetry upon Earth ! 
The Many-sided Master-Mind of Germany ! 
His enemies rush into the other extreme, and 
hurl at him the fierce names of Old Humbug ! 
and Old Heathen ! which hit like pistol-bul- 
lets.” 

“ I confess he was no saint.” 

“ No ; his philosophy is the old ethnic phi- 
losophy. You will find it all in a convenient 
and concentrated portable form in Horace’s 
beautiful Ode to Thaliarcus. What I most 
object to in the old gentleman is his sensu- 
ality.” 

“O, nonsense ! Nothing can be purer than 
the Iphigenia ; it is as cold and passionless as 
a marble statue.” 

“ Very true ; but you cannot say the same 
of some of the Roman Elegies, and of ^'hat 
strange book, the Elective Affinities.” 


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“ Ah, my friend, Goethe is an artist ; and 
looks upon all things as objects of art merely. 
Why should he not be allowed to copy in 
words what painters and sculptors copy in 
colors and in marble ? ” 

“ The artist shows his character in the choice 
of his subject. Goethe never sculptured an 
Apollo, nor painted a Madonna. He gives us 
only sinful Magdalens and rampant Fauns. 
He does not so much idealize as realize.” 

“He only copies nature.” 

“ So did the artists who made the bronze 
lamps of Pompeii. Would you hang one of 
those in your hall } To say that a man is an 
artist and copies nature is not enough. There 
are two great schools of art ; the imitative and 
the imaginative. The latter is the most noble, 
and the most enduring ; and Goethe belonged 
rather to the former. Have you read Menzel’s 
attack upon him ? ” 

“It is truly ferocious. The Silesian hews 
into him lustily. I hope you do not take sides 
with him.” 

“ By no means. He goes too far. He 
blames the poet for not being a politician. 
He might as well blame hin? for not being a 
missionary to the Sandwich Islands.” 


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And what do you think of Eckermann ? ” 

“I think he is a kind of German Boswell 
Goethe knew he was drawing his portrait, and 
sat for it accordingly. He works very hard to 
make a Saint Peter out of an old Jupiter, as 
the Catholics did at Rome.” 

“ Well, call him Old Humbug, or Old Hea- 
then, or what you please ; I maintain, that, 
with all his errors and shortcomings, he was a 
glorious specimen of a man.” 

“He certainly was. Did it ever occur to 
you that he was in some points like Ben 
Eranklin, — a kind of rhymed Ben Franklin } 
The practical tendency of his mind was the 
same ; his love of science was the same ; his 
benignant, philosophic spirit was the same ; 
and a vast number of his little poetic maxims 
and soothsayings seem nothing more than the 
worldly wisdom of Poor Richard, versified.” 

“ What most offends me is, that now every 
German jackass must have a kick at the dead 
lion.” 

“ And every one who passes through Wei- 
mar must throw a book upon his grave, as 
travellers did of old a stone upon the grave of 
Manfredi, at Benevento. But, of all that has 
been said or sung, what most pleases me is 


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Heine’s Apologetic, if I may so call it ; in 
which he says, that ^the minor poets, who 
flourished under the imperial reign of Goethe, 
resemble a young forest, where the trees first 
show their own magnitude after the oak of a 
hundred years, whose branches had towered 
above and overshadowed them, has fallen. 
There was not wanting an opposition that 
strove against Goethe, this majestic tree. Men 
of the most warring opinions united themselves 
for the contest. The adherents of the old 
faith, the orthodox, were vexed that in the 
trunk of the vast tree no niche with its holy 
image was to be found ; nay, that even the 
naked Dryads of paganism were permitted to 
play their witchery there ; and gladly, with 
consecrated axe, would they have imitated the 
holy Boniface, and levelled the enchanted oak 
to the ground. The followers of the new 
faith, the apostles of Liberalism, were vexed, 
on the other hand, that the tree could not 
serve as a Liberty Tree, or, at any rate, as a 
barricade. In fact the tree was too high ; ne 
one could plant the red cap upon its summit, 
or dance the Carmagnole beneath its branches. 
The multitude, however, venerated this tree 
for the very reason that it reared itself with 


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1 66 

such independent grandeur, and so graciously 
filled the world with its odor, while its branches 
streaming magnificently toward heaven made 
it appear as if the stars were only the golden 
fruit of its wondrous limbs/ Do you not think 
that beautiful ? ” 

“Yes, very beautiful. And I am glad to 
see that you can find something to admire in 
my favorite author, notwithstanding his frail- 
ties ; or, to use an old German saying, that 
you can drive the hens out of the garden with- 
out trampling down the beds.” 

“ Here is the old gentleman himself ! ” ex- 
claimed Flemming. 

“ Where } ” cried the Baron, as if for the 
moment he expected to see the living figure 
of the poet walking before them. 

“Here at the window, — that full-length 
cast. Excellent, — is it not ? He is dressed, 
as usual, in his long yellow nankeen surtout, 
with a white cravat crossed in front. What a 
magnificent head ! and what a posture I He 
stands like a tower of strength. And, by 
Heavens I he was nearly eighty years old when 
that was made.” 

“ How do you know ? ” 

“You can see by the date on the pedestal.” 


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167 


“You are right. And yet how erect he 
stands, with his square shoulders braced back, 
and his hands behind him ! He looks as if 
he were standing before the fire. I feel 
tempted to put a live coal into his hand, it lies 
so invitingly half-open. Gleim’s description 
of him, soon after he went to Weimar, is very 
different from this. Do you recollect it } ” 

“No, I do not.” 

“ It is a story which good old father Gleim 
used to tell with great delight. He was one 
evening reading the Gottingen Musen-Alma- 
nach in a select society at Weimar, when a 
young man came in, dressed in a short, green 
shooting-jacket, booted and spurred, and hav- 
ing a pair of brilliant, black, Italian eyes. He, 
in turn, offered to read ; but finding, probably, 
the poetry of the Musen-Almanach of that 
year rather too insipid for him, he soon began 
to improvise the wildest and most fantastic 
poems imaginable, and in all possible forms 
and measures, pretending all the while to read 
from the book. ‘That is either Goethe or 
the Devil,’ said good old father Gleim to Wie- 
land, who sat near him. To which the Great 
I of Osmannstadt replied, — ‘ It is both, for he 
has the Devil in him to-night ; and at such 


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times he is like a wanton colt, that flings out 
before and behind, and you will do well not to 
go too near him ! ’ 

“ Very good ! ” 

“ And now that noble figure is but mould. 
Only a few months ago, those majestic eyes 
looked for the last time on the light of a pleas- 
ant spring morning. Calm, like a god, the 
old man sat ; and with a smile seemed to bid 
farewell to the light of day, on which he had 
gazed for more than eighty years. Books 
were near him, and the pen which had just 
dropped, as it were, from his dying fingers. — 
Open the shutters, and let in more light ! 
were the last words that came from those lips. 
Slowly stretching forth his hand, he seemed 
to write in the air ; and, as it sank down again 
and was motionless, the spirit of the old man 
departed.’’ 

“ And yet the world goes on. It is strange 
how soon, when a great man dies, his place is 
filled ; and so completely, that he seems no 
longer wanted. But let us step in here- I 
wish to buy that cast.” 


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169 


CHAPTER IX. 

The Daylight of the Dwarf and the 
Falling Star 

FTER lingering a day or two in Frank- 



fort, the two friends struck across 
through Hochheim to the Rhine, and up 
among the hills of the Rheingau to Schlan- 
genbad, where they tarried only to bathe and 
to dine, and then pursued their way to Lan- 
genschwalbach. The town lies in a valley, 
with gently sloping hills around it, and long 
avenues of poplars leading forth into the 
fields. One interminable street cuts the town 
in twain, and there are old houses with curi- 
ous faces carved upon their fronts, and dates 
of the olden time. 

Our travellers soon sallied forth from their 
hotel, impatient to drink the strength-giving 
waters of the fountains. They continued 
their walk far up the valley under the poplars. 
The new grain was waving in the fields ; the 
birds singing in the trees and in the air ; and 


170 


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everything seemed glad, save a poor old man, 
who came tottering out of the woods, with 
a heavy bundle of sticks on his shoulders. 

Returning upon their steps, they passed 
down the valley and through the long street 
to the tumble-down old Lutheran church. A 
flight of stone steps leads from the street to 
the green terrace or platform on which the 
church stands, and which in ancient times was 
the church-yard, or, as the Germans more 
devoutly say, God’s-acre ; where generations 
are scattered like seeds, and that which is 
sown in corruption shall be raised hereaf- 
ter in incorruption. On the steps stood an 
old man, — a very old man, — holding a little 
girl by the hand. He took off his greasy cap 
as they passed, and wished them good day. 
His teeth were gone ; he could hardly articu- 
late a syllable. The Baron asked him how old 
the church was. He gave no answer ; but 
when the question was repeated, came close 
up to them, and, taking off his cap again, 
turned his ear attentively, and said : — 

“ I am hard of hearing.” 

“ Poor old man,” said Flemming ; “ he is as 
much a ruin as the church we are entering 
It will not be long before he, too, shall be sown 
as seed in this God’s-acre ! ” 


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171 

The little girl ran into a house close at 
hand, and brought out the great key. The 
church -door swung open, and, descending a 
few steps, they passed through a low-roofed 
passage into the church. All was in ruin. The 
gravestones in the pavement were started from 
their places ; the vaults beneath yawned ; the 
roof above was falling piecemeal ; there were 
rents in the old tower ; and mysterious pas- 
sages, and side doors with crazy flights of 
wooden steps, leading down into the church- 
yard. Amid all this ruin, one thing only 
stood erect ; it was a statue of a knight in 
armor, standing in a niche under the pulpit. 

“ Who is this ? ” said Flemming to the old 
sexton ; “ who is this, that stands here so sol- 
emnly in marble, and seems to be keeping 
guard over the dead men below } ” 

“ I do not know,” replied the old man ; “ but 
I have heard my grandfather say it was the 
statue of a great warrior ! ” 

“ There is history for you ! ” exclaimed the 
Baron. “ There is fame ! To have a statue 
of marble, and yet have your name forgotten by 
the sexton of your parish, who can remember 
only that he once heard his grandfather say that 
you were a great warrior ! ” 


172 


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Flemming made no reply, for he was think- 
ing of the days, when, from that old pulpit, 
some bold reformer thundered down the first 
tidings of a new doctrine, and the roof ech- 
oed with the grand old hymn of Martin Lu- 
ther. 

When he communicated his thoughts to the 
Baron, the only answer he received was : — 

“After all, what is the use of so much 
preaching } Do you think the fishes, that 
heard the sermon of St. Anthony, were any 
better than those who did not ? I commend 
to your favorable notice the fish-sermon of this 
saint, as recorded by Abraham a Sancta 
Clara. You will find it in your favorite Won- 
der-Horn." 

Thus passed the day at Langenschwalbach ; 
and the evening at the Allee-Saal was quite 
solitary ; for as yet no company had arrived 
to fill its chambers, or sit under the trees 
before the door. The next morning even 
Flemming and the Baron were gone ; for the 
German’s heart was beating with strong desire 
to embrace his sister ; and the heart of his 
friend cared little whither he went, sobeit he 
were not too much alone. 

After a few hours’ drive, they were looking 


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173 


down from the summit of a hill directly upon 
the house-tops of Ems. There it lay, deep 
sunk in the hollow beneath them, as if some 
inhabitant of Sirius, like him spoken of in 
Voltaire’s tale of Micromegas, held it in the 
hollow of his hand. High and peaked rise 
the hills that throw their shadows into this 
romantic valley, and at their base winds the 
river Lahn. Our travellers drove through the 
one long street composed entirely of hotels 
and lodging-houses. Sick people looked out 
of the windows as they passed. Others were 
walking leisurely up and down, beneath the 
few decapitated trees, which represent a pub- 
lic promenade ; and a boy, with a blue frock 
and crimson cap, was driving three donkeys 
down the street. In short, they were in a 
fashionable watering-place ; as yet sprinkled 
only by a few pattering drops of the summer 
rain of strangers, which generally follows the 
first hot days. 

On alighting at the London Hotel, the Baron 
found — not his sister, but only a letter from 
her, saying she had changed her mind and 
gone to the Baths of Franconia. This was a 
disappointment, which the Baron pocketed 
with the letter, and said not a word more about 


174 


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either. It was his way, — his philosophy in 
small things and great. In the evening, they 
went to an aesthetic tea, at the house of the 
Frau Kranich, the wife of a rich banker of 
Frankfort. 

“ I must tell you about this Frau Kranich,” 
said the Baron to Flemming, on the way. 
“She is a woman of talent and beauty, and 
just in the prime of life ; but, unfortunately, 
very ambitious. Her mania is, to make a fig- 
ure in the fashionable world ; and to this end 
she married a rich banker of Frankfort, old 
enough to be her father, not to say her grand- 
father, hoping, doubtless, that he would soon 
die ; for, if ever a woman wished to be a 
widow, she is that woman. But the old fellow 
is tough and won’t die. Moreover, he is deaf, 
and crabbed, and penurious, and half the time 
bedridden. The wife is a model of virtue, 
notwithstanding her weakness. She nurses the 
old gentleman as if he were a child. And, 
to crown all, he hates society, and will not 
hear of his wife’s receiving or going into com- 
pany.” 

“ How, then, can she give aesthetic teas ? ” 
asked Flemming. 

“I was just going to tell you,” continued 


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^75 


the Baron. “The gay lady has no taste for 
long evenings with the old gentleman in the 
back chamber, — for being thus chained like 
a criminal under Mezentius, face to face with 
a dead body. So she puts him to bed first, 
and " 

“ Gives him opium.” 

“ Y es, I dare say ; and then gives herself a 
tea-party, without his knowing anything about 
it. This course of deception is truly hateful in 
itself, and must be particularly so to her, for 
she is not a low or an immoral woman ; but one 
of those, who, not having strength enough to 
complete the sacrifice they have had strength 
enough to commence, are betrayed into a life 
of duplicity and falsehood.” 

They had now reached the house, and were 
ushered into a room gayly lighted and filled 
with guests. The hostess came forward to 
receive them, dressed in white, and sailing 
down the room like a swan. When the 
customary salutations had passed and Flem- 
ming had been duly presented, the Baron 
said, not without a certain degree of mal- 
ice : — 

“ And, my dear Frau Kranich, how is your 
good husband to-night ? ” 


176 


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This question was about as discreet as a 
cannon-ball. But the lady replied, in the sim- 
plicity of her heart, and not in the least dis- 
concerted : — 

“The same as ever, my dear Baron. It is 
astonishing how he holds out. But let us not 
talk of these things now. I must introduce 
your friend to his countryman, the Grand 
Duke of Mississippi ; alike remarkable for his 
wealth, his modesty, and the extreme sim- 
plicity of his manners. He drives only six 
horses. Besides, he is known as a man of 
learning and piety, — has his private chapel, 
and private clergyman, who always preaches 
against the vanity of worldly riches. He has 
also a private secretary, whose sole duty is to 
smoke to him, that he may enjoy the aroma 
of Spanish cigars, without the trouble of smok- 
ing.” 

“ Decidedly a man of genius ! ” 

Here Flemming was introduced to his il- 
lustrious countryman ; a person who seemed 
to consist chiefly of linen, such a display 
did he make of collar, bosom, and wrist- 
bands. 

“Pray, Mr. Flemming, what do you think 
of that Rembrandt } ” said he, pointing to a 


A Romance 


177 


picture on the wall. Exquisite picture 1 
The grandeur of sentiment and splendor of 
chiaroscuro are of the first order. Just observe 
the liquidity of the water, and the silveriness 
of the clouds ! Great power ! There is a bra- 
vura of handling in that picture, Sir, which it 
requires the eye of the connoisseur to appre- 
ciate.” 

'‘Yes, a most undoubted — copy ! ” 

And here their conversation ended ; for at 
that moment the little Moldavian Prince Jer- 
kin made his way through the crowd, with his 
snuff-box as usual in his hand, and hurried up 
to Flemming, whom he had known in Heidel- 
berg. He was eager to let every one know 
that he spoke English, and in his haste began 
by making a mistake. 

“ Good bye ! Good bye ! Mr. Flemming ! ” 
said he, instead of good evening. " I am rav- 
ished to see you in Ems. Nice place; — all 
that there is of most nice. I drink my water 
and am good ! Do you not think the Frau 
Kranich has a very beautiful leather } ” 

He meant skin. Flemming laughed out- 
right ; but it was not perceived by the Prince, 
because at that moment he was pushed aside, 
in the rush of a gallopade, and Flemming be^ 
8 * 


L 


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held his face no more. At the same moment 
the Baron introduced a friend of his, who also 
«poke English and said : — 

"‘You will sup with me to-night. I have 
some Rhine-wine, which will be a seduction to 
you.” 

Soon after, the Baron stood, with an impas- 
sioned, romantic lady leaning on his arm, exam- 
ining a copy of Raphael’s Fornarina. 

“Ach! I wish I had been the Fornarina,” 
sighed the impassioned, romantic lady. 

“ Then, my dear madam,” replied the Baron, 
“I wish I had been Raphael.” 

And so likewise said to himself a very tall 
man with fiery red hair and fancy whiskers, 
who was waltzing round and round in one 
spot, and in a most extraordinary waistcoat ; 
thus representing a fiery fioating-light, to 
warn men of the hidden rocks on which the 
breath of vanity drives them shipwreck. At 
length his partner, tired of spinning, sank up- 
on a sofa, like a child’s top, when it reels and 
falls. 

“You do not like the waltz.?” said an elderly 
French gentleman, remarking the expression 
of Flemming’s countenance. 

“ O yes ; among the figurantes of the opera 


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179 


But I confess it sometimes makes me shudder 
to see a young rake clasp his arms round the 
waist of a pure and innocent girl. What would 
you say, were you to see him sitting on a sofa 
with his arms round your wife ? ” 

“Mere prejudice of education,” replied the 
French gentleman. “I know that situation. 
I have read all about it in the BiblioMque de 
Romans Choisis ! ” 

And merrily went the dance; and bright 
eyes and flushed cheeks were not wanting 
among the dancers ; 

“ And they waxed red, and waxed warm, 

And rested, panting, arm in arm ” ; 

and the Strauss-waltzes sounded pleasantly in 
the ears of Flemming, who, though he never 
danced, yet, like Henry of Ofterdingen, in the 
romance of Novalis, thought to music. The 
wheeling waltz set the wheels of his fancy go- 
ing. And thus the moments glided on, and 
the footsteps of Time were not heard amid the 
sound of music and voices. 

But suddenly this scene of gayety was inter- 
rupted The door opened wide ; and the 
short figure of a gray-haired old man pre- 
sented itself, with a flushed countenance and 


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wild eyes. He was but half dressed, and in his 
hand held a silver candlestick without a light. 
A sheet was wound round his head, like a tur- 
ban ; and he tottered forward with a vacant, 
bewildered look, exclaiming : — 

“ I am Mahomet, the king of the Jews ! ” 

At the same moment he fell in a swoon, and 
was borne out of the room, by the servants. 
Flemming looked at the lady of the festival, 
and she was deadly pale. For a moment, all 
was confusion ; and the dance and the music 
stopped. The impression produced on the 
company was at once ludicrous and awful. 
They tried in vain to rally. The whole soci- 
ety was like a dead body, from which the 
spirit has departed. Erelong, the guests had 
all dispersed, and left the lady of the mansion 
to her mournful, expiring lamps, and still' more 
mournful reflections. 

Truly,” said Flemming to the Baron, as 
they wended their way homeward, “ this seems 
not like reality ; but like one of the sharp con- 
trasts we find in novels. Who shall say, after 
this, that there is not more romance in real life 
than we find written in books ? ” 

“Not more romance,” said the Baron, “but 
a different romance.’" 


A Romance 1 8 1 

A still more tragic scene had been that 
evening enacted in Heidelberg. Just as the 
sun set, two female figures walked along the 
romantic woodland pathway, leading to the 
Angel’s Meadow, a little green opening on 
the brow of one of the high hills which see 
themselves in the Neckar and hear the solemn 
bells of Kloster-Neuburg. The evening shad- 
ows were falling broad and long ; and the 
cuckoo began to sing. 

“ Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! ” said the eldest of the 
two figures, repeating an old German popular 
rhyme, — 

“ ‘ Cuckoo ! cuckoo ! 

Tell me true. 

Tell me fair and fine, 

How long must I unmarried pine ? ’ ” 

It was the voice of an evil spirit that spoke 
in the person of Madeleine ; and the pale and 
shrinking figure that walked by her side, and 
listened to those words, was Emma of Ilmenau. 
A young man joined them, where the path 
turns into the thick woodlands ; and they dis- 
appeared among the shadowy branches. It 
was the Polish Count. 

The forget-me-nots looked up to heaven 
with their meek blue eyes, from their home in 


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Angel’s Meadow. Calmly stood the mountain 
of All-Saints, in its majestic, holy stillness ; — 
the river flowed so far below, that the murmur 
of its waters was not heard ; — there was not 
a sigh of the evening wind among the leaves, 
not a sound upon the earth nor in the air ; 
— and yet night there fell a star from 
heaven I 


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183 


CHAPTER X. 

The Parting 

T T was now that season of the year which 
an old English writer calls the amiable 
month of June, and at that hour of the day, 
when, face to face, the rising moon beholds 
the setting sun. As yet the stars were few in 
heaven. But, after the heat of the day, the 
coolness and the twilight descended like a 
benediction upon the earth, by all those 
gentle sounds attended which are the meek 
companions of the night. 

Flemming and the Baron had passed the 
afternoon at the Castle. They had rambled 
once more together, and for the last time, over 
the magnificent ruin. On the morrow they 
were to part, perhaps for ever. The Baron 
was going to Berlin, to join his sister ; and 
Flemming, driven forward by the restless spirit 
within him, longed once more for a change of 
scene, and was to start for the Tyrol and 
Switzerland. Alas ! he never said to the pasS' 


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ing hour, “ Stay, for thou art fair ! ” but 
reached forward into the dark future, with 
unsatisfied longings and aimless desires that 
were never still. 

As the day was closing, they sat down on 
the terrace of Elizabeth’s Garden. The sun 
had set beyond the blue Alsatian hills ; and 
on the valley of the Rhine fell the purple mist, 
like the mantle of the departing prophet from 
his fiery chariot. Over the castle walls and 
the trees of the garden rose the large moon ; 
and between the contending daylight and 
moonlight there were as yet no shadows. But 
at length the shadows came, — transparent 
and faint outlines, that deepened into form 
In the valley below only the river gleamed, 
like steel ; and here and there the lamps were 
lighted in the town. Solemnly stood the leafy 
linden-trees in the garden near them, their 
trunks in darkness and their summits bronzed 
with moonlight ; and in his niche in the great 
round tower, overhung with ivy, like a majes- 
tic phantom, stood the gray statue of Louis, 
with his venerable beard, and shirt of mail, 
and flowing mantle ; and the mild, majestic 
countenance looked forth into the silent night, 
as the countenance of a seer who reads the 


A Romance 185 

stars. At intervals, the wind of the summer 
night passed through the ruined castle and 
the trees, and they sent forth a sound as if 
Nature were sighing in her dreams ; and for 
a moment, overhead, the broad leaves gently 
clashed together, like brazen cymbals, with a 
tinkling sound ; and then all was still, save 
the sweet, passionate song of nightingales, 
that nowhere sing more sweetly than in the 
gardens of Heidelberg Castle. 

The hour, the scene, and the near-approach- 
ing separation of the two young friends, had 
filled their hearts with a pleasant, though 
at the same time not painless excitement. 
They had been conversing about the mag- 
nificent old ruin, and the ages in which it 
had been built, and the vicissitudes of time 
and war, that had battered down its walls, 
and left it tenantless, save to the cranny- 
ing wind.” 

“ How sorrowful and sublime is the face of 
that statue yonder ! ” said Flemming. “ It 
reminds me of the old Danish hero Beowulf ; 
for careful, sorrowing, he seeth in his son’s 
bower the wine-hall deserted, the resort of the 
wind, noiseless ; the knight sleepeth ; the 
warrior lieth in darkness ; there is no noise 


1 86 Hyperion 

of the harp, no joy in the dwellings, as there 
was before.” 

“ Even as you say,” replied the Baron ; 
“ but it often astonishes me, that, coming from 
that fresh green world of yours beyond the 
sea, you should feel so much interest in these 
old things ; nay, at times, seem so to have 
drunk in their spirit, as really to live in the 
times of old. For my part, I do not see what 
charm there is in the pale and wrinkled coun- 
tenance of the Past, so to entice the soul of a 
young man. It seems to me like falling in 
love with one’s grandmother. Give me the 
Present, — warm, glowing, palpitating with 
life. She is my mistress ; and the Future 
stands waiting like my wife that is to be, — 
for whom, to tell the truth, I care very little 
just now. Indeed, my friend, I wish you 
would take more heed of this philosophy of 
mine ; and not waste the golden hours of 
youth in vain regrets for the past, and indef- 
inite, dim longings for the future. Youth 
comes but once in a lifetime.” 

“ Therefore,” said Flemming, let us so en- 
joy it as to be still young when we are old. 
For my part, I grow happier as I grow older. 
When I compare my sensations and enjoy- 


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187 


ments now with what they were ten years 
ago, the comparison is vastly in favor of the 
present. Much of the fever and fretfulness of 
life is over. The world and I look each other 
more calmly in the face. My mind is more 
self-possessed. It has done me good to be 
somewhat parched by the heat and drenched 
by the rain of life.” 

“ Now you speak like an old philosopher,” 
answered the Baron, laughing. “ But you de- 
ceive yourself. I never knew a more restless, 
feverish spirit than yours. Do not think you 
have gained the mastery yet. You are only 
riding at anchor here in an eddy of the 
stream ; you will soon be swept away again 
in the mighty current and whirl of accident. 
Do not trust this momentary calm. I know 
you better than you know yourself. There is 
something Faust-like in you ; you would fain 
grasp the highest and the deepest, and reel 
from desire to enjoyment, and in enjoyment 
languish for desire. When a momentary 
change of feeling comes over you, you think 
the change permanent, and thus live in con- 
stant self-deception.” 

“ I confess,” said Flemming, “ there may be 
some truth in what you say. There are times 


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when my soul is restless ; and a voice sounds 
within me, like the trump of the archangel, and 
thoughts that were buried, long ago, come out 
of their graves. At such times my favorite 
occupations and pursuits no longer charm me. 
The quiet face of Nature seems to mock me.” 

“ There certainly are seasons,” replied the 
Baron, '‘when Nature seems not to sympa- 
thize with her beloved children. She sits 
there so eternally calm and self-possessed, so 
very motherly and serene, and cares so little 
whether the heart of her child breaks or not, 
that at times I almost lose my patience. 
About that, too, she cares so little, that, out 
of sheer obstinacy, I become good-humored 
again, and then she smiles.” 

“ I think we must confess, however,” con- 
tinued Flemming, “that all this springs from 
our own imperfection, not from hers. How 
beautiful is this green world which we in- 
habit ! See yonder, how the moonlight min- 
gles with the mist ! What a glorious night 
is this ! Truly, every man has a Paradise 
around him, until he sins, and the angel of an 
accusing conscience drives him from his Edea 
And even then there are holy hours, when 
this angel sleeps, and man comes back, and, 


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189 


with the innocent eyes of a child, looks into 
his lost Paradise again, — into the broad gates 
and rural solitudes of Nature. I feel this 
often. We have much to enjoy in the quiet 
and retirement of our own thoughts. Bois- 
terous mirth and loud laughter are not my 
mood. I love that tranquillity of soul, in 
which we feel the blessing of existence, and 
which in itself is a prayer and a thanksgiving. 
I find, however, that, as I grow older, I love 
the country less, and the town more.” 

“Yes,” interrupted the Baron; “and pres- 
ently you will love the town less and the 
country more. Say at once, that you have an 
undefined longing for both ; and prefer town 
or country, according to the mood you are in. 
I think a man must be of a very quiet and 
happy nature, who can long endure the coun- 
try ; and, moreover, very well contented with 
his own insignificant person, very self-com- 
placent, to be continually occupied with him- 
self and his own thoughts. To say the least, 
a town life makes one more tolerant and 
liberal in one’s judgment of others. One is 
not eternally wrapped up in self-contempla- 
tion ; which, after all, is only a more holy 
kind of vanity.” 


Hyperion 


190 

In conversation like this, the hours glided 
away ; till at length, from the Giant’s Tower, 
the castle clock struck twelve, with a sound 
that seemed to come from the Middle Ages. 
Like watchmen from their belfries, the city 
clocks answered it, one by one. Then distant 
and muffled sounds were heard. Inarticulate 
words seemed to blot the foggy air, as if writ- 
ten on wet paper. These were the bells of 
Handschuhsheimer, and of other villages on 
the broad plain of the Rhine and among the 
hills of the Odenwald ; mysterious sounds, 
that seemed not of this world. 

Beneath them, in the shadow of the hills, 
lay the valley, — fathomless, black, impenetra- 
ble. Above were the cloistered stars, that, 
nun-like, walk the holy aisles of heaven. The 
city was asleep in the valley below ; all asleep 
and silent, save the clocks, that had just struck 
twelve, and the veering, golden weathercocks, 
that were swimming in the moonlight, like 
golden fishes in a glass vase. And again the 
wind of the summer night passed through the 
old castle and the trees, and the nightingales 
recorded under the dark, shadowy leaves, and 
the heart of Flemming was full. 

When he had retired to his chamber, a feci- 


A Romance 


191 

ing of utter loneliness came over him. The 
night before one begins a journey is always a 
dismal night ; for, as Byron says, 

“ In leaving even the most unpleasant people 
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple ! ” 

and how much more so when the place and 
people are pleasant ! as was the case with 
those that Flemming was now leaving. No 
wonder he was sad and sleepless. Thoughts 
came and went, and bright and gloomy fan- 
cies, and dreams and visions, and sweet faces 
looked under his closed eyelids, and vanished 
away, and came again, and again departed. 
He heard the clock strike from hour to hour, 
and said, “ Another hour is gone.” At length 
the birds began to sing ; and ever and anon 
the cock crew. He arose, and looked forth 
into the gray dawn ; and before him lay the 
city he was so soon to leave, all white and 
ghastly, like a city that had arisen from its 
grave. 

''All things must change,” said he to the 
Baron, as he embraced him, and held him by 
the hand. "Friends must be torn asunder, 
and swept along in the current of events, to 
see each other seldom, and perchance no 


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more. For ever and ever in the eddies of 
time and accident we whirl away. Besides 
which, some of us have a perpetual motion in 
our wooden heads, as Wodenblock had in his 
wooden leg ; and like him we travel on, with- 
out rest or sleep, and have hardly time to take 
a friend by the hand in passing ; and at length 
are seen hurrying through some distant land, 
worn to a skeleton, and all unknown.” 


BOOK .THE THIRD 


Take away the lights, too ; 

The moon lends me too much to find my fears, 

And those devotions I am now to pay 
Are written in my heart, not in thy book ; 

And I shall read them there without a taper. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 





BOOK THE THIRD 


CHAPTER I. 


Summer- T ime 



HEY were right, — those old German 


Minnesingers, — to sing the pleasant 
summer-time! What a time it is ! How June 
stands illuminated in the calendar ! The win- 
dows are all wide open ; only the Venetian 
blinds closed. Here and there a long streak 
of sunshine streams in through a crevice. 
We hear the low sound of the wind among the 
trees ; and, as it swells and freshens, the dis- 
tant doors clap to, with a sudden sound. The 
trees are heavy with leaves ; and the gardens 
full of blossoms, red and white. The whole 
atmosphere is laden with perfume and sun- 
shine. The birds sing. The cock struts about, 
and crows loftily. Insects chirp in the grass. 
Yellow buttercups stud the green carpet like 
golden buttons, and the red blossoms of the 


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clover like rubies. The elm-trees reach their 
long, pendulous branches almost to the ground. 
White clouds sail aloft ; and vapors fret the 
blue sky with silver threads. The white 
village gleams afar against the dark hills. 
Through the meadow winds the river, — care- 
less, indolent. It seems to love the country, 
and is in no haste to reach the sea. The bee 
only is at work, — the hot and angry bee. 
All things else are at play ; he never plays, 
and is vexed that any one should. 

People drive out from town to breathe, 
and to be happy. Most of them have flowers 
in their hands ; bunches of apple-blossoms, 
and still oftener lilacs. Ye denizens of the 
crowded city, how pleasant to you is the 
change from the sultry streets to the open 
field, fragrant with clover-blossoms ! how 
pleasant the fresh, breezy country air, dashed 
with brine from the meadows ! how pleasant, 
above all, the flowers, — the manifold, beau- 
tiful flowers! 

It is no longer day. Through the trees 
rises the red moon, and the stars are scarcely 
seen. In the vast shadow of night, the cook 
ness and the dews descend. I sit at the open 
window to enjoy them ; and hear only the 


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197 


voice of the summer wind. Like black hulks, 
the shadows of the great trees ride at anchor 
on the billowy sea of grass. I cannot see the 
red and blue flowers, but I know that they are 
there. Far away in the meadow gleams the 
silver Charles. The tramp of horses’ hoofs 
sounds from the wooden bridge. Then all is 
still, save the continuous wind of the summer 
night. Sometimes I know not if it be the 
wind, or the sound of the neighboring sea. 
The village clock strikes ; and I feel that I am 
not alone. 

How different is it in the city ! It is late, 
and the crowd is gone. You step out upon the 
balcony, and lie in the very bosom of the cool, 
dewy Night, as if you folded her garments 
about you. Beneath lies the public walk with 
trees, like a fathomless, black gulf, into whose 
silent darkness the spirit plunges and floats 
away, with some beloved spirit clasped in its 
embrace. The lamps are still burning up and 
down the long street. People go by, with gro- 
tesque shadows, now foreshortened, and now 
lengthening away into the darkness and van- 
ishing, while a new one springs up behind the 
walker, and seems to pass him, revolving like 
the sail of a windmill. The iron gates of the 


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park shut with a jangling clang. There are 
footsteps and loud voices ; — a tumult, — a 
drunken brawl, — an alarm of fire ; — then si- 
lence again. And now at length the city is 
asleep, and we can see the night. The belated 
moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to 
welcome her. The moonlight is broken. It 
lies here and there in the squares, and the 
openings of streets, — angular, like blocks of 
white marble. 


Under such a green, triumphal arch, O 
Reader, with the odor of flowers about thee, 
and the song of birds, shalt thou pass onward 
into the enchanted land, as through the Ivory 
Gate of dreams ! And as a prelude and ma- 
jestic march, one sweet human voice, coming 
from the bosom of the Alps, sings this sublime 
ode, which the Alpine echoes repeat afar. 

“ Come, golden Evening ! in the west 
Enthrone the storm-dispelling sun, 

And let the triple rainbow rest 

O’er all the mountain-tops. ’T is done ; — 

The tempest ceases ; bold and bright. 

The rainbow shoots from hill to hill ; 

Down sinks the sun ; on presses night ; — 

Mont Blanc is lovely still ! 


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199 


There take thy stand, my spirit ; — spread 
The world of shadows at thy feet ; 

And mark how calmly, overhead. 

The stars, like saints in glory, meet 
While hid in solitude sublime, 

Methinks I muse on Nature’s tomb, 

And hear the passing foot of Time 
Step through the silent gloom. 

All in a moment, crash on crash. 

From precipice to precipice. 

An avalanche’s ruins dash 

Down to the nethermost abyss. 

Invisible ; the ear alone 

Pursues the uproar till it dies ; 

Echo to echo, groan for groan. 

From deep to. deep, replies. 

Silence again the darkness seals. 

Darkness that may be felt ; — but soon 
The silver-clouded east reveals 

The midnight spectre of the moon ; 

In half-eclipse she lifts her horn. 

Yet o’er the host of heaven supreme 
Brings the faint semblance of a mom. 
With her awakening beam. 

Ah ! at her touch, these Alpine heights 
Unreal mockeries appear ; 

With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights, 
Emerging as she climbs the sphere ; 

A crowd of apparitions pale ! 

I hold my breath in chill suspense. 

They seem so exquisitely frail. 

Lest they should vanish hence. 


200 


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I breathe again, I freely breathe ^ 

Thee, Leman’s Lake, once more I trace, 
Like Dian’s crescent far beneath. 

As beautiful as Dian’s face : 

Pride of the land that gave me birth ! 

All that thy waves reflect I love. 

Where heaven itself, brought down to earth, 
Looks fairer than above. 

Safe on thy banks again I stray ; 

The trance of poesy is o’er, 

And I am here at dawn of day, 

Gazing on mountains as before. 

Where all the strange mutations wrought 
Were magic feats of my own mind ; 

For, in that fairy land of thought, 

Whate’er I seek, I find.” * 


* James Montgomery. 


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201 


CHAPTER II. 

Foot- T ravelling 

T ell me, my soul, why art thou restless } 
Why dost thou look forward to the fu- 
ture with such strong desire } The present is 
thine, — and the past ; — and the future shall 
be ! O that thou didst look forward to the 
great hereafter with half the longing where- 
with thou longest for an earthly future, — 
which a few days, at most, will bring thee ! to 
the meeting of the dead, as to the meeting of 
the absent ! Thou glorious spirit-land ! O 
that I could behold thee as thou art, — the 
region of life and light and love, and the 
dwelling-place of those beloved ones whose 
being has flowed onward, like a silver-clear 
stream into the solemn-sounding main, into 
the ocean of Eternity ! 

Such were the thoughts that passed through 
the soul of Flemming, as he lay in utter solh 
tude and silence on the rounded summit of 
one of the mountains of the Furca Pass, and 

9 * 


202 


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gazed, with tears in his eyes, and ardent long- 
ing in his heart, into the blue, swimming 
heaven overhead, and at the glaciers and snowy 
mountain-peaks around him. Highest and 
whitest of all stood the peak of the Jungfrau, 
which seemed near him, though it rose afar 
off from the bosom of the Lauterbrunner Thai. 
There it stood, holy and high and pure, the 
bride of heaven, veiled and clothed in white, 
and lifting the thoughts of the beholder heav- 
enward. O, he little thought then, as he gazed 
at it with longing and delight, how soon a form 
was to arise in his own soul, as holy and high 
and pure as this, and like this point heaven- 
ward ! 

Thus lay the traveller on the mountain sum- - 
mit, reposing his weary limbs on the short, 
brown grass, which more resembled moss than 
grass. He had sent his guide forward, that he 
might be alone. His soul within him was wild 
with a fierce and painful delight. The moun- 
tain air excited him ; the mountain solitudes 
enticed, yet maddened him. Every peak, every 
sharp, jagged iceberg, seemed to pierce him. 
The silence was awful and sublime. It was 
like that in the soul of a dying man, when he 
hears no more the sounds of earth. He seemed 


Roma7ice 


203 


to be laying aside his earthly garments. The 
heavens were near unto him ; but between him 
and heaven every evil deed he had done 
arose gigantic, like those mountain-peaks, and 
breathed an icy breath upon him. O, let not 
the soul that suffers dare to look Nature in tht 
face, where she sits majestically aloft in the 
solitude of the mountains ! for her face is hard 
and stern, and turns not in compassion upon 
her weak and erring child. It is the counte- 
nance of an accusing archangel, who summons 
us to judgment. In the valley she wears the 
countenance of a Virgin Mother, looking at 
us with tearful eyes, and a face of pity and 
love! 

But yesterday Flemming had come up the 
valley of the Saint Gothard Pass, through 
Amsteg, where the Kerstelenbach comes dash- 
ing down the Maderaner Thai, from its snowy 
cradle overhead. The road is steep, and runs 
on zigzag terraces. The sides of the moun- 
tains are barren cliffs ; and from their cloud- 
capt summits, unheard amid the roar of the 
great torrent below, come streams of snow- 
white foam, leaping from rock to rock, like the 
mountain chamois. As you advance, the scene 
grows wilder and more desolate. There is not 


204 


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a. tree in sight, — not a human habitation. 
Clouds, black as midnight, lower upon you 
from the ravines above ; and the mountain 
torrent beneath is but a sheet of foam, and 
sends up an incessant roar. A sudden turn in 
the road brings you in sight of a lofty bridge, 
stepping from cliff to cliff with a single stride. 
A mighty cataract howls beneath it, like an 
evil spirit, and fills the air with mist ; and the 
mountain wind claps its hands and shrieks 
through the narrow pass, Ha ! ha ! This is 
the Devil’s Bridge. It leads the traveller 
across the fearful chasm, and through a moun- 
tain gallery into the broad, green, silent 
meadow of Andermath. 

Even the sunny morning which followed 
this gloomy day had not chased the desolate 
impression from the soul of Flemming. His 
excitement increased as he lost himself more 
and more among the mountains ; and now, as 
he lay alone on the summit of the sunny hill, 
with only glaciers and snowy peaks about him, 
his soul, as I have said, was wild with a fierce 
and painful delight. 

A human voice broke his reverie. He 
looked, and beheld, at a short distance from 
him, the athletic form of a mountain herdsman, 


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205 


who was approaching the spot where he lay. 
He was a young man, clothed in a rustic garb, 
and holding a long staff in his hand. When 
Flemming rose, he stood still, and gazed at him, 
as if he loved the face of man, even of a stran- 
ger, and longed to hear a human voice, though 
it might speak in an unknown tongue. He 
answered Flemming’s salutation in a rude 
mountain dialect, and in reply to his questions 
said : — 

“ I, with two others, have charge of two 
hundred head of cattle on these mountains. 
Through the two summer months, we remain 
here night and day ; for which we receive each 
a napoleon.” 

Flemming gave him half his summer wages. 
He was glad to do a good deed in secret, and 
yet so near heaven. The man received it as 
his due, like a toll-keeper ; and soon after de- 
parted, leaving the traveller alone. And the 
traveller went his way down the mountain, as 
one distraught. He stopped only to pluck one 
bright blue flower, which bloomed alone in the 
vast desert, and looked up at him, as if to say, 
“ O, take me with you ! leave me not here com- 
panionless 1 ” 

Erelong he reached the magnificent glacier 


206 


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of the Rhone ; a frozen cataract, more than 
two thousand feet in height, and many miles 
broad at its base. It fills the whole valley 
between two mountains, running back to their 
summits. At the base it is arched, like a 
dome ; and above, jagged and rough, and 
resembles a mass of gigantic crystals, of a pale 
emerald tint, mingled with white. A snowy 
crust covers its surface ; but at every rent and 
crevice the pale green ice shines clear in the 
sun. Its shape is that of a glove, lying with 
the palm downwards, and the fingers crooked 
and close together. It is a gauntlet of ice, 
which, centuries ago. Winter, the king of these 
mountains, threw down in defiance to the 
Sun ; and year by year the Sun strives in 
vain to lift it from the ground on the point of 
his glittering spear. A feeling of wonder 
and delight came over the soul of Flemming 
when he beheld it, and he shouted and cried 
aloud : — 

“ How wonderful ! how glorious ! ” 

After lingering a few hours in the cold, des- 
olate valley, he climbed in the afternoon the 
steep Mayen-Wand, on the Grimsel ; passed 
the Lake of the Dead, with its ink-black 
waters ; and through the melting snow, and 


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207 


over slippery stepping-stones in the beds of 
numberless shallow brooks, descended to the 
Grimsel Hospital, where he passed the night, 
and thought it the most lone and desolate 
spot that man ever slept in. 

On the morrow he rose with the day ; and 
the rising sun found him already standing on 
the rustic bridge which hangs over the verge 
of the Falls of the Aar at Handeck, where the 
river pitches down a precipice into a narrow 
and fearful abyss shut in by perpendicular 
cliffs. At right angles with it comes the beau- 
tiful Aerlenbach ; and half-way down, the 
double cascade mingles into one. Thus he 
pursued his way down the Hash Thai into the 
Bernese Oberland, — restless, impatient, he 
knew not why, — stopping seldom, and never 
long, — and then rushing forward again, like 
the rushing river whose steps he followed, 
and in whose ice-cold waters ever and anon 
he bathed his wrists, to cool the fever in his 
blood; for the noonday sun was hot. 

His heart dilated in the dilating valley, 
that grew broader and greener at every step. 
The sight of human faces and human dwellings 
soothed him ; and through the fields of sum- 
mer grain, in the broad meadows of Imgrund, 


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he walked with a heart that ached no more, 
but trembled only, as our eyelids when we 
have done weeping. As he climbed the oppo- 
site hill, which hems in this romantic valley, 
and, like a heavy yoke, chafes the neck of the 
Aar, he believed the ancient tradition, which 
says that once the valley was a lake. From 
the summit of the hill he looked southward 
upon a beautiful landscape of gardens, and 
fields of grain, and woodlands, and meadows, 
and the ancient castle of Resti, looking down 
upon Meyringen. And now all around him 
were the singing of birds, and grateful shad- 
ows of the leafy trees, and sheeted water- 
falls dropping from the woodland cliffs, seen 
only, but unheard, — the fluted columns break- 
ing into mist, and fretted with frequent spires 
and ornaments of foam, and not unlike the 
towers of a Gothic church inverted. There, 
in one white sheet of foam, the Reichenbach 
pours down into its deep beaker, into which 
the sun never shines. Face to face it beholds 
the Alpbach falling from the opposite hill, 
“ like a downward smoke.” When Flemming 
saw the innumerable runnels, sliding down the 
mountain-side, and leaping, all life and glad- 
ness, he would fain have clasped them in his 


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209 


arms and been their playmate, and revelled 
with them in their freedom and delight. Yet 
he was weary with the day’s journey, and en- 
tered the village of Meyringen, embowered in 
cherry-trees, which were then laden with fruit, 
more like a way-worn traveller than an enthu- 
siastic poet. As he went up the tavern-steps, 
he said in his heart, with the Italian Aretino : 
“ He who has not been at a tavern knows not 
what a paradise it is. O holy tavern ! O 
miraculous tavern! — holy, because no cark- 
ing cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain ; 
and miraculous, because of the spits, which 
of themselves turn round and round I Of a 
truth, all courtesy and good manners come 
from taverns, so full of bows, and Signor y si ! 
and Signor y no ! ” 

But even in the tavern he could not rest 
long. The same evening at sunset he was 
floating on the lake of Brienz, in an open boat, 
close under the cascade of the Giessbach, hear- 
ing the peasants sing the Ranz des Vaches. 
He slept that night at the other extremity of 
the lake, in a large house, which, like Saint 
Peter’s at Joppa, stood by the water’s side. 
The next day he wasted in writing letters, 
musing in this green nest, and paddling about 


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the lake again ; and in the evening went across 
the beautiful meadows to Interlachen, where 
many things happened to him, and detained 
him long. 


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21 I 


CHAPTER III. 
Interlachen 

I NTERLACHEN ! How peacefully, by the 
margin of the swift-rushing Aar, thou best 
on the broad lap of those romantic meadows, 
all overshadowed by the wide arms of giant 
trees ! Only the quaint towers of thine ancient 
cloister rise above their summits ; the quaint 
towers themselves but a child’s playthings 
under the great church-towers of the moun- 
tains. Close beside thee are lakes, which the 
flowing band of the river ties together. Before 
thee opens the magnificent valley of Lauter- 
brunnen, where the cloud-hooded Monk and 
the pale Virgin stand like Saint Francis and 
his Bride of Snow ; and around thee are fields, 
and orchards, and hamlets green, from which 
the church-bells answer each other at evening. 
The evening sun was setting when I first be- 
held thee. The sun of life will set ere I forget 
thee ! Surely it was a scene like this that 
inspired the soul of the Swiss poet, in his Song 
T)f the Bell ! 


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“Bell ! thou soundest merrily, 

When the bridal party 
To the church doth hie ! 

Bell ! thou soundest solemnly. 

When, on Sabbath morning. 

Fields deserted lie ! 

“Bell ! thou soundest merrily ; 

Tellest thou at evening. 

Bedtime draweth nigh ! 

Bell ! thou soundest mournfully, 

Tellest thou the bitter 
Parting hath gone by ! 

“ Say ! how canst thou mourn ? 

How canst thou rejoice ? 

Art but metal dull ! 

And yet all our sorrowings. 

And all our rejoicings. 

Thou dost feel them all ! 

“ God hath wonders many, 

Which we cannot fathom. 

Placed within thy form ! 

When the heart is sinking. 

Thou alone canst raise it. 

Trembling in the storm ! ” 

Paul Flemming alighted at one of the prin- 
cipal hotels. The landlord came out to meet 
him. He had great eyes and a green coat ; 
and reminded Flemming of the innkeeper 
mentioned in the Golden Ass, who had been 


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213 


changed by magic into a frog, and croaked to 
his customers from the lees of a wine-cask. 
His house, he said, was full, and so was every 
house in Interlachen ; but, if the gentleman 
would walk in, he would find a chamber fot 
him in the neighborhood. 

On the sofa sat a gentleman, reading ; a 
stout gentleman of perhaps forty-five, round, 
ruddy, and with a head which, being a little 
bald on the top, looked not unlike a crow’s 
nest with one egg in it. A good-humored 
face turned from the book as Flemming 
entered ; and a good-humored voice ex- 
claimed : — 

“ Ha ! Mr. Flemming ! Is it you, or your 
apparition ? I told you we should meet again ! 
though you were for taking an eternal farewell 
of your fellow-traveller.” 

Saying these words the stout gentleman rose 
and shook Flemming heartily by the hand. 
And Flemming returned the shake as heartily, 
recognizing in this ruddy personage a former 
travelling-companion, Mr. Berkley, whom he 
had left, a week or two previous, toiling up the 
Righi. Mr. Berkley was an Englishman of 
fortune ; a good-humored, humane old bach- 
elor, remarkable alike for his common sense 


214 


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and his eccentricity. That is to say, the basis 
of his character was good, sound common- 
sense, trodden down and smoothed by educa- 
tion ; but this level groundwork his strange 
and whimsical fancy used as a dancing-floor 
whereon to exhibit her eccentric tricks. His 
ruling passion was cold-bathing ; and he usu- 
ally ate his breakfast sitting in a tub of cold 
water, and reading a newspaper. He kissed 
every child he met ; and to every old man said, 
in passing, “ God bless you ! ” with such an ex- 
pression of voice and countenance, that no 
one could doubt his sincerity. He reminded 
one of Roger Bontemps, or the Little Man in 
Gray ; though with a difference. 

“ The last time I had the pleasure of seeing 
you, Mr. Berkley,” said Flemming, “was at 
Goldau, just as you were going up the Righi. 
I hope you were gratified with a fine sunrise 
on the mountain-top.” 

“No, I was not!” replied Mr. Berkley. 
“ It is all a humbug 1 a confounded humbug ! 
They made such a noise about their sunrise, 
that I determined I would not see it. So I 
lay snug in bed ; and only peeped through the 
window-curtain. That was enough. Just 
above the house, on the top of the hill, stood 


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215 


some fifty half-dressed, romantic individuals, 
shivering in the wet grass ; and, a short dis- 
tance from them, a miserable wretch, blowing 
a long, wooden horn. That’s your sunrise on 
the Righi, is it } said I ; and went to sleep 
again. The best thing I saw at the Culm was 
the advertisement on the bed-room doors, say- 
ing, that, if the women would wear the quilts 
and blankets for shawls, when they went out 
to see the sunrise, they must pay for the wash- 
ing. Take my word for it, the Righi is a great 
humbug ! ” 

“ Where have you been since ? ” 

“At Zurich and Schaff hausen. If you go 
to Zurich, beware how you stop at the Ra- 
ven. They will cheat you. They cheated 
me ; but I had my revenge ; for, when we 
reached Schaff hausen, I wrote in the Travel- 
ler’s Book, — 

* Beware of the Raven of Zurich ! 

’ T is a bird of omen ill ; 

With a noisy and an unclean nest, 

And a very, very long bill. ’ 

If you go to the Golden Falken, you will find 
it there. I am the author of those lines ! ” 

“ Bitter as J uvenal ! ” exclaimed Flemming. 
“ Not in the least bitter,” said Mr. Berkley. 


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“It is all true. Go to the Raven and see. 
But this Interlachen ! this Interlachen ! It is 
the loveliest spot on the face of the earth,” he 
continued, stretching out both arms, as if to 
embrace the object of his affection. “There, 
— only look out there ! ” 

Here he pointed to the window. Flemming 
looked, and beheld a scene of transcendent 
beauty. The plain was covered already by the 
brown shade of the summer twilight. From 
the cottage roofs in Unterseen rose here and 
there a thin column of smoke over the tops of 
the trees, and mingled with the evening shad- 
ows. The valley of Lauterbrunnen was filled 
with a blue haze. Far above, in the clear, 
cloudless heaven, the white forehead of the 
Jungfrau blushed at the last kiss of the depart- 
ing sun. It was a glorious transfiguration of 
Nature ! And when the village bells began to 
ring, and a single voice at a great distance 
was heard yodling forth a ballad, it rather 
broke than increased the enchantment of a 
scene, where silence was more musical than 
sound. 

For a long time they gazed at the gloaming 
landscape, and spake not. At length people 
came in, and laid aside their shawls and hats, 


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217 


and exchanged a word or two with Berkley. 
To Flemming they were all unknown. The 
conversation turned upon the various excur- 
sions of the day. Some had been at the 
Staubbach, others at the Grindelwald, others 
at the lake of Thun ; and nobody before had 
ever experienced half the rapture which they 
had experienced that day. And thus they sat 
in the twilight, as people love to do, at the 
close of a summer day. As yet the lamps 
had not been lighted, and one could not distin- 
guish faces ; but voices only, and forms like 
shadows. 

Presently a female figure, clothed in black, 
entered the room and sat down by the window. 
She rather listened to the conversation, than 
joined in it ; but the few words she said were 
spoken in a voice so musical and full of soul, 
that it moved the soul of Flemming, like a 
whisper from heaven. 

O, how wonderful is the human voice ! It 
IS indeed the organ of the soul ! The intellect 
of man sits enthroned visibly upon his fore- 
head and in his eye ; and the heart of man is 
written upon his countenance. But the soul 
reveals itself in the voice only ; as God re- 
vealed himself to the prophet of old in the 


10 


2i8 


Hyperion 


still, small voice, and in the voice from the 
burning bush. The soul of man is audible, 
not visible. A sound alone betrays the flow- 
ing of the eternal fountain, invisible to man ! 

Flemming would fain have sat and listened 
for hours to the sound of that unknown voice. 
He felt sure, in his secret heart, that the being 
from whom it came was beautiful. His imagi- 
nation filled up the faint outline which the eye 
beheld in the fading twilight, and the figure 
stood already in his mind like Raphael’s beau- 
tiful Madonna, in the Dresden gallery. He 
was never more mistaken in his life. The 
voice belonged to a beautiful being, it is true ; 
but her beauty was different from that of any 
Madonna which Raphael ever painted ; as he 
would have seen, had he waited till the lamps 
were lighted. But in the midst of his reverie 
and saint-painting, the landlord came in, and 
told him he had found a room, which he 
begged him to go and look at. 

Flemming took his leave and departed. 
Berkley went with him, to see, he said, what 
kind of a nest his young friend was to sleep 
in. 

“The room is not what I could wish,” 
said the landlord, as he led them across the 


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219 


street. It is in the old cloister. But to-mor- 
row or next day, you can, no doubt, have a 
room at the house.” 

The name of the cloister struck Flem- 
ming’s imagination pleasantly. He was owl 
enough to like ruins and old chambers, where 
nuns or friars had slept. And he said to Berk- 
ley : — 

“So, you perceive, my nest is to be in a 
cloister. It already makes me think of a bird’s 
nest I once saw on an old tower of Heidelberg 
Castle, built in the jaws of a lion, which for- 
merly served as a spout. But pray tell me, 
who was that young lady with the soft voice .? ” 

“ What young lady with the soft voice ? ” 

“ The young lady in black who sat by the 
window.” 

“ O, she is the daughter of an English officer, 
who died not long ago at Naples. She is pass- 
ing the summer here with her mother.” 

“What is her name?” 

“ Ashburton.” 

“Is she beautiful?” 

“ Not beautiful, but very intellectual. A 
woman of genius, I should say.” 

And now they had reached the walls of the 
cloister, and passed under an arched gateway, 


2 20 


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and close beneath the quaint towers, which 
Flemming had already seen, rising with their 
cone-shaped roofs above the trees, like tall ta- 
pers, with extinguishers upon them. 

*‘It is not so bad as it looks,” said the 
landlord, knocking at a small door, in the main 
building. ‘‘The bailiff lives in one part of 
it.” 

A servant girl, with a candle in her hand, 
opened the door, and conducted Flemming and 
Berkley to the chamber which had been en- 
gaged. It was a large room on the lower floor, 
wainscoted with pine, and unpainted. Three 
lofty and narrow windows, with leaden lattices 
and small panes, looked southward towards 
the valley of Lauterbrunnen and the moun- 
tains. In one corner was a large square bed, 
with a tester and checked curtains. In another, 
a huge stove of painted tiles, reaching almost 
to the ceiling. An old sofa, a few high-backed, 
antique chairs, and a table, completed the fur- 
niture of the room. 

Thus Flemming took possession of his 
monkish cell and dormitory. He ordered tea, 
and began to feel at home. Berkley passed 
the evening with him. On going away, he 
said : — 


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22 I 


“ Good night ! I leave you to the care of 
the Virgin and all the Saints. If the ghost of 
any old monk comes back after his prayer- 
book, my compliments to him. If I were a 
younger man, you certainly should see a ghost. 
Good-night ! ” 

When he had departed, Flemming opened 
the lattice of one of the windows. The moon 
had risen, and silvered the dark outline of the 
nearest hills ; while, afar off, the snowy sum- 
mits of the Jungfrau and the Silver-Horn 
shone like a white cloud in the sky. Close 
beneath the windows was a flower-garden ; and 
the breath of the summer night came to him 
with dewy fragrance. There was a grateful 
seclusion about the place. He blessed the 
happy accident which gave him such a lodging, 
and fell asleep that night thinking of the nuns 
who once had slept in the same quiet cells ; 
but neither wimpled nun nor cowled monk 
appeared to him in his dreams; — not even the 
face of Mary Ashburton ; nor did he hear her 


voice. 


222 


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CHAPTER IV. 

The Evening and the Morning Star 
LD Froissart tells us, in his Chronicles, 



that, when King Edward beheld the 
Countess of Salisbury at her castle-gate, he 
thought he had never seen before so noble nor 
so fair a lady ; he was stricken thereupon to 
the heart with a sparkle of fine love, that en- 
dured long after ; he thought no lady in the 
world so worthy to be beloved as she. And 
so likewise thought Paul Flemming, when he 
beheld the English lady in the fair light of 
a summer morning. I will not disguise the 
truth. She is my heroine ; and I mean to 
describe her with great truth and beauty, so 
that all shall be in love with her, and I most 


of all. 


Mary Ashburton was in her twentieth sum- 
mer. Like the fair maiden Amoret, she was 
sitting in the lap of womanhood. They did 
her wrong who said she was not beautiful ; 
and yet 


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223 


“ She was not fair, 

Nor beautiful ; — those words express her not. 
But, O, her looks had something excellent. 
That wants a name ! ” 


Her face had a wonderful fascination in it. 
It was such a calm, quiet face, with the light 
of the rising soul shining so peacefully through 
it. At times it wore an expression of seri- 
ousness, — of sorrow even ; and then seemed 
to make the very air bright with what the 
Italian poets so beautifully call the lampeg- 
giar delV angelica riso, — the lightning of the 
angelic smile. 

And, O, those eyes, — those deep unut- 
terable eyes, with ^^down-falling eyelids full 
of dreams and slumber,” and within them 
a cold, living light, as in mountain lakes at 
evening, or in the river of Paradise, forever 
gliding, 

“ With a brown, brown current. 

Under the shade perpetual, that never 
Ray of the sun lets in, nor of the moon.” 


I dislike an eye that twinkles like a star. 
Those only are beautiful which, like the plan- 
ets, have a steady, lambent light, — are lumi- 
nous, but not sparkling. Such eyes the Greek 
poets give to Immortals. 


224 


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The lady’s figure was striking. Every step, 
every attitude, was graceful, and yet lofty, a^ 
if inspired by the soul within. Angels in the 
old poetic philosophy have such forms ; it was 
the soul itself imprinted on the air. And 
what a soul was hers ! A temple dedicated 
to Heaven, and, like the Pantheon at Rome, 
lighted only from above. And earthly pas- 
sions in the form of gods were no longer there, 
but the sweet and thoughtful faces of Christ, 
and the Virgin Mary, and the Saints. Thus 
there was not one discordant thing in her ; but 
a perfect harmony of figure, and face, and 
soul, — in a word, of the whole being. And 
he who had a soul to comprehend hers must 
of necessity love her, and, having once loved 
her, could love no other woman forever- 
more. 

No wonder, then, that Flemming felt his 
heart drawn towards her, as, in her morning 
walk, she passed him, sitting alone under the 
great walnut-trees near the cloister, and think- 
ing of heaven, not of her. She, too, was alone. 
Her cheek was no longer pale ; but glowing 
and bright, with the inspiration of the summer 
air. Flemming gazed after her, till she disap- 
peared, even as a vision of his dreams, he 


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225 


knew not whither. He was not yet in love, 
but very near it ; for he thanked God that 
he had made such beautiful beings to walk the 
earth. 

Last night he had heard a voice to which 
his soul responded ; and he might have gone on 
his way and taken no further heed. But he 
would have heard that voice afterwards, when- 
ever at evening he thought of this evening at 
Interlachen. To-day he had seen more clearly 
the vision, and his restless ^ul grew calm. 
The place seemed pleasant to him ; and he 
could not go. He did not ask himself whence 
came this calm. He felt it, and was happy in 
the feeling ; and blessed the landscape and the 
summer morning, as if they possessed the 
wonder-working power. 

'‘A pleasant morning-dream to you,” said a 
friendly voice ; and at the same moment some 
one laid his band upon Flemming’s shoulder. 
It was Berkley. He had approached unseen 
and unheard. 

“ I see by the smile on your countenance,” 
he continued, “ that it is no day-incubus.” 

“You are right,” replied Flemming. “It 
was a pleasant dream, which you have put to 
flight.” 


10 


o 


226 


Hyperion 


“And I am glad to see that you have also 
put to flight the gloomy thoughts which used 
to haunt you. I like to see people cheerful 
and happy. Why give way to sadness in this 
beautiful world.?” 

“ Ah ! this beautiful world ! ” said Flemming, 
with a smile. “ Indeed, I know not what to 
think of it. Sometimes it is all gladness and 
sunshine, and heaven itself lies not far off. 
And then it changes suddenly, and is dark 
and sorrowful, and clouds shut out the sky. 
In the lives of the saddest of us, there are 
bright days like this, when we feel as if we 
could take the great world in our arms. Then 
come the gloomy hours, when the fire will 
neither burn on our hearths nor in our hearts ; 
and all without and within is dismal, cold, and 
dark. Believe me, every heart has its se- 
cret sorrows which the world knows not, and 
oftentimes we call a man cold, when he is only 
sad.” 

“ And who says we do not .? ” interrupted 
Berkley. “ Come, come ! Let us go to 
breakfast. The morning air has given me 
a rude appetite. I long to say grace over 
a fresh egg, and eat salt with my worst ene- 
mies ; namely, the Cockneys at the hotel 


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227 


After breakfast you must give yourself up 
wholly to me. I shall take you to the Grinded 
wald ! ” 

To-day, then, you do not breakfast like Di- 
ogenes, but consent to leave your tub.” 

‘‘Yes, for the pleasure of your company. I 
shall also blow out the light in my lantern, hav- 
ing found you.” 

“Thank you.” 

The breakfast passed without any unusual 
occurrence. Flemming watched the entrance 
of every guest ; but she came not, — the guest 
he most desired to see. 

“ And now for the Grindelwald ! ” said Berk^ 
ley. 

“ Why such haste ? We have the whole day 
before us. There is time enough.” 

“Not a moment to lose, I assure you. The 
carriage is at the door.” 

They drove up the valley of Lauterbrunnen, 
and turned eastward among the mountains of 
the Grindelwald. There they passed the day ; 
half-frozen by the icy breath of the Great Gla- 
cier, upon whose surface stand pyramids and 
blocks of ice, like the tombstones of a ceme- 
tery. It was a weary day to Flemming. He 
wished himself at Interlachen ; and was glad, 


228 


Hyperion 


when, towards evening, he saw once more the 
cone-roofed towers of the cloister rising above 
the walnut-trees. 

That evening is written in red letters in his 
history. It gave him another revelation of the 
beauty and excellence of woman’s character 
and intellect ; not wholly new to him, yet now 
renewed and fortified. It was from the lips of 
Mary Ashburton that the revelation came. 
Her form arose, like a tremulous evening-star, 
in the firmament of his soul. He conversed 
with her, and with her alone ; and knew not 
when to go. All others were to him as if they 
were not there. He saw their forms, but saw 
them as the forms of inanimate things. At 
length her mother came ; and Flemming be- 
held in her but another Mary Ashburton, with 
beauty more mature ; — the same forehead 
and eyes, the same majestic figure ; and, as 
yet, no trace of age. He gazed upon her 
with a feeling of delight, not unmingled with 
holy awe. She was to him the rich and glow- 
ing Evening, from whose bosom the tremulous 
star was born. 

Berkley took no active part in the conversa- 
tion, but did what was much more to the pur- 
pose, — that is to say, arranged a drive for the 


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229 


next day with the Ashburtons, and of course 
invited Flemming, who went home that night 
with a halo round his head, and wondering 
much at a dandy, who stood at the door of the 
hotel, and said to his companion, as Flemming 
passed : — 

“ What do you call this place ? I have 
been here two hours already, and find it dev- 
ilish dull!” 


230 


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CHAPTER V. 

A Rainy Day 

HEN Flemming awoke the next morn- 



V V ing, he saw the sky dark and lower- 
ing. From the mountain-tops hung a curtain 
of mist, whose heavy folds waved to and fro in 
the valley below. Over all the landscape the 
soft summer rain was falling. No admiring 
eyes would look up that day at the Staub- 


bach. 


A rainy day in Switzerland puts a sudden 
stop to many diversions. The coachman may 
drive to the inn, and then back to the stable ; 
but no farther. The sun-burnt guide may sit 
at the ale-house door, and welcome ; and the 
boatman whistle and curse the clouds, at his 
own sweet will ; — but no foot stirs abroad for 
all that ; no traveller moves, if he has time to 
stay. The rainy day gives him time for reflec- 
tion. He has leisure now to take cognizance 
of his impressions, and make up his account 
with the mountains. He remembers, too, that 


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231 


he has friends at home ; and writes up the 
journal, neglected for a week or more, and let- 
ters neglected longer ; or finishes the rough 
pencil-sketch begun yesterday in the open air. 
On the whole, he is not sorry it rains, — though 
disappointed. 

Flemming was both sorry and disappointed ; 
but he did not on that account fail to go over 
to the Ashburtons at the appointed hour. He 
found them sitting in the parlor. The mother 
was reading, and the daughter retouching a 
sketch of the Lake of Thun. After the usual 
salutations, Flemming seated himself near the 
daughter, and said : — 

“ We shall have no Staubbach to-day, I pre- 
sume ; only this Giessbach from the clouds.” 

“ Nothing more, I suppose. So we must be 
content to stay in-doors, and listen to the sound 
of the eaves-dropping rain. It gives me time 
to finish some of these rough sketches.” 

It is a pleasant pastime,” said Flemming ; 
“and I perceive you are very skilful. I am 
delighted to see that you can draw a straight 
line. I never before saw a lady’s sketch-book 
in which all the towers did not resemble the 
Leaning Tower of Pisa. I always tremble for 
the little men under them.” 


232 Hyperion 

** How absurd ! ” exclaimed Mary Ashburton, 
with a smile that passed through the misty 
air of Flemming’s thoughts like a sunbeam. 
“For one, I succeed much better in straight 
lines than in any others. Here I have been 
trying a half-hour to make this water-wheel 
round ; and round it never will be.” 

“ Then let it remain as it is. It looks un- 
commonly picturesque, and may pass for a 
new invention.” 

The lady continued to sketch, and Flem- 
ming to gaze at her beautiful face ; often re- 
peating to himself those lines in Marlow’s 
Faust : — 

“ O, thou art fairer than the evening air. 

Clad in the beauty of a thousand stars ! ” 

He certainly would have betrayed himself 
to the maternal eye of Mrs. Ashburton, had 
she not been wholly absorbed in the follies of 
a fashionable novel. Erelong, the fair sketcher 
had paused for a moment ; and Flemming had 
taken her sketch-book in his hands and was 
looking it through from the beginning with 
ever-increasing delight, half of which he dared 
not express, though he favored her with some 
comments and bursts of admiration. 

“This is truly a very beautiful sketch of 


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233 


Murten and the battle-field ! How quietly the 
landscape sleeps there by the lake, after the 
battle ! Did you ever read the ballad of Veit 
Weber, the shoemaker, on this subject ? He 
says, the routed Burgundians jumped into the 
lake, and the Swiss Leaguers shot them down 
like wild ducks among the reeds. He fought 
in the battle, and wrote the ballad after- 
wards ; — 

‘ He had himself laid hand on sword, 

He who this rhyme did write ; 

Till evening mowed he with the sword, 

And sang the song at night’ ” 

You must give me the whole ballad,” said 
Miss Ashburton ; “ it will serve to illustrate 
the sketch.” 

“And the sketch to illustrate the ballad. 
And now we suddenly slide down the Alps 
into Italy, and are even in Rome, if I mistake 
not. This is surely a head of Homer } ” 
“Yes,” replied the lady, with a little enthu- 
siasm. “Do you not remember the marble 
bust at Rome } When I first beheld that 
bust, it absolutely inspired me with awe. It 
is not the face of a man, but of a god ! ” 

“ And you have done it no injustice in your 
copy,” said Flemming, catching a new enthush 


Hyperion 


234 

asm from hers. “With what a classic grace 
the fillet, passing round the majestic forehead, 
confines his flowing locks, which mingle with 
his beard ! The countenance, too, is calm, 
majestic, godlike ! Even the fixed and sight- 
less eyeballs do not mar the image of the 
seer! Such were the sightless eyes of the 
blind old man of Chios. They seem to look 
with mournful solemnity into the mysterious 
future ; and the marble lips to repeat that 
prophetic passage in the Hymn to Apollo : — 
‘ Let me also hope to be remembered in ages 
to come. And when any one, born of the 
tribes of men, comes hither, a weary traveller, 
and inquires, who is the sweetest of the sing- 
ing-men that resort to your feasts, and whom 
you most delight to hear, do you make answer 
for me : It is the Blind Man who dwells in 
Chios ; his songs excel all that can ever be 
sung ! ’ But do you really believe that this is 
a portrait of Homer ? ” 

“ Certainly not ! It is only an artist’s dream. 
It was thus that Homer appeared to him in 
his visions of the antique world Every one, 
you know, forms an image in his fancy of 
persons and things he has never seen ; and 
the artist reproduces them in marble or on 


canvas. 


A Romance 


235 

“ And what is the image in your fancy ? Is 
it like this ? ” 

“ No ; not entirely. I have drawn my im- 
pressions from another source. Whenever I 
think of Homer, which is not often, he walks 
before me, solemn and serene, as in the vision 
of the great Italian ; in countenance neither 
sorrowful nor glad, followed by other bards, 
and holding in his right hand a sword ! ” 

That is a finer conception than this,” said 
Flemming. “And I perceive from your words, 
as well as from this book, that you have a true 
feeling for Art, and understand what it is. 
You have had bright glimpses into the en- 
chanted land.” 

“ I trust,” replied the lady, modestly, “ that 
I am not wholly without this feeling. Cer- 
tainly I have as strong and passionate a love 
of Art as of Nature.” 

“ But does it not often offend you to hear 
people speaking of Art and Nature as opposite 
and discordant things.^ Surely nothing can 
be more false. Nature is a revelation of God ; 
Art a revelation of man. Indeed, Art signi- 
fies no more than this. Art is Power. That 
is the original meaning of the word. It is 
the creative power by which the soul of man 


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makes itself known, through some external 
manifestation or outward sign. As we can 
always hear the voice of God, walking in the 
garden, in the cool of the day, or under the 
star-light, where, to quote one of this poet’s 
verses, ^high prospects and the brows of all 
steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves 
for shows,’ — so under the twilight and the 
starlight of past ages do we hear the voice 
of man, walking amid the works of his hands, 
and city walls and towers, and the spires of 
churches, thrust up themselves for shows.” 

The lady smiled at his warmth ; and he 
continued : — 

“ This, however, is but a similitude ; and 
Art and Nature are more nearly allied than 
by similitudes only. Art is the revelation of 
man ; and not merely that, but likewise the 
revelation of Nature, speaking through man. 
Art pre-exists in Nature, and Nature is re- 
produced in Art. As vapors from the ocean, 
floating landward and dissolved in rain, are 
carried back in rivers to the ocean, so thoughts 
and the semblances of things that fall upon 
the soul of man in showers flow out again in 
living streams of Art, and lose themselves in 
the great ocean, which is Nature. Art and 


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237 


Nature are not, then, discordant, but ever har- 
moniously working in each other.” 

Enthusiasm begets enthusiasm. Flemming 
spake with such evident interest in the sub- 
ject, that Miss Ashburton did not fail to mani- 
fest some interest in what he said ; and en- 
couraged by this, he proceeded : — 

Thus in this wondrous world wherein we 
live, which is the World of Nature, man has 
made unto himself another world hardly less 
wondrous, which is the World of Art. And 
it lies infolded and compassed about by the 
other, 

‘ And the clear region where ’t was born 
Round in itself encloses. ’ 

Taking this view of Art, I think we under- 
stand more easily the skill of the artist, and 
the difference between him and the mere 
amateur. What we call miracles and wonders 
of Art are not so to him who created them ; 
for they were created by the natural move- 
ments of his, own great soul. Statues, paint- 
ings, churches, poems, are but shadows of 
himself; — shadows in marble, colors, stone, 
words. He feels and recognizes their beauty ; 
but he thought these thoughts and produced 
these things as easily as inferior minds do 


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thoughts and things inferior ; perhaps more 
easily. Vague images and shapes of beauty 
floating through the soul, the semblances of 
things as yet indefinite or ill-defined, and per- 
fect only when put in Art, — this Possible 
Intellect, as the Scholastic Philosophers have 
termed it, — the artist shares in common with 
us all. The lovers of Art are many. But 
the Active Intellect, the creative power, — the 
power to put these shapes and images in Art, 
to embody the indefinite, and render perfect, 
— is his alone. He shares the gift with few. 
He knows not even whence nor how this is. 
He knows only that it is ; that God has given 
him the power, which has been denied to 
others.” 

“ I should have known you were just from 
Germany,” said the lady, with a smile, “even 
if you had not told me so. You are an en- 
thusiast for the Germans. For my part, I 
cannot endure their harsh language.” 

“You would like it better, if you knew it 
better,” answered Flemming. “ It is not harsh 
to me ; but homelike, hearty, and full of feel- 
ing, — like the sound of happy voices at a 
fireside, of a winter’s night, when the wind 
blows, and the fire crackles, and hisses, and 


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239 


snaps. I do indeed love the Germans ; the 
men are so hale and hearty, and the Frauleins 
so tender and true ! ” 

“ I always think of men with pipes and 
beer, and women with knitting-work.” 

O, those are English prejudices ! ” exclaimed 
Flemming. “ Nothing can be more — ” 

“And their very literature presents itself 
to my imagination under the same forms.” 

“I see you have read only English criti- 
cisms ; and have an idea, that all German 
books smell, as one of your English critics 
says, ^ of groceries, of brown papers filled with 
greasy cakes and slices of bacon, and of fry- 
ings in frouzy back-parlors ’ ; and this shuts 
you out from a glorious world of poetry, ro- 
mance, and dreams ! ” 

Mary Ashburton smiled, and Flemming con- 
tinued to turn over the leaves of the sketch- 
book, with an occasional criticism and witti- 
cism. At length he came to a leaf which 
was written in pencil. People of a lively 
imagination are generally curious, and always 
so when a little in love. 

“ Here is a pencil-sketch,” said he, with an 
entreating look, “which I would fain examine 
with the rest.” 


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“You may do so, if you wish ; but you will 
find it the poorest sketch in the book. I was 
trying one day to draw the picture of an 
artist’s life in Rome, as it presented itself to 
my imagination ; and this is the result. Per- 
haps it may awaken some pleasant recollec- 
tion in your mind.” 

Flemming waited no longer ; but read with 
the eyes of a lover, not of a critic, the follow- 
ing description, which inspired him with a 
new enthusiasm for Art, and for Mary Ash- 
burton. 

“ I often reflect with delight upon the young 
artist’s life in Rome. A stranger from the 
cold and gloomy North, he has crossed the 
Alps, and with the devotion of a pilgrim jour- 
neyed to the Eternal City. He dwells, per- 
haps, upon the Pincian Hill ; and hardly a 
house there, which is not inhabited by artists 
from foreign lands. The very room he lives 
in has been their abode time out of mind. 
Their names are written all over the walls ; 
perhaps some further record of them is left 
in a rough sketch upon the window-shutter, 
with an inscription and a date. These things 
consecrate the place, in his imagination. Even 
these names, though unknown to him, are not 
without associations in his mind. 


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241 


"In that warm latitude he rises with the 
day. The night-vapors are already rolling 
away over the Campagna seaward. As he 
looks from his window, above and beyond 
their white folds he recognizes the tremulous 
blue sea at Ostia. The rising sun salutes 
Soracte, — his own beloved mountain ; though 
no longer worshipped there, as of old. Before 
him, the antique house of Claude Lorraine 
casts its long brown shadow down into the 
heart of modern Rome. The city lies still 
asleep and silent. But above its dark roofs, 
more than two hundred steeples catch the 
sunshine on their gilded weathercocks. Pres- 
ently the bells begin to ring, and, as the artist 
listens to their pleasant chimes, he knows that 
in each of those churches, over the high altar, 
hangs a painting by some great master’s hand, 
whose beauty comes between him and heaven, 
so that he cannot pray, but wonder only. 

"Among these works of art he passes the 
day ; but oftenest in St. Peter’s and the Vati- 
can. Up the vast marble staircase, through 
the Corridor Chiaramonti, through vestibules, 
galleries, chambers, he passes as in a dream. 
All are filled with busts and statues, or painted 
in daring frescos. What forms of strength 


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and beauty ! what glorious creations of the 
human mind ! and in that last chamber of all, 
standing alone upon his pedestal, the Apollo 
found at Antium, — in such a majestic atti- 
tude, — with such a noble countenance, life- 
like, god-like ! 

“Or perhaps he passes into the chambers 
of the painters ; but goes no farther than the 
second. For in the middle of that chamber 
a large painting stands upon the heavy easel, 
as if unfinished, though more than three 
hundred years ago the great artist completed 
it, and then laid his pencil away forever, leav- 
ing this last benediction to the world. It is 
the Transfiguration, of Christ, by Raphael. 
A child looks not .at the stars with greater 
wonder than the artist at this painting. He 
knows how many studious years are in that 
picture. He knows the difficult path that 
leads to perfection, having himself taken some 
of the first steps. Thus he recalls the hour 
when that broad canvas was first stretched 
upon its frame, and Raphael stood before it, 
and laid the first colors upon it, and beheld 
the figures one by one born into life, and 
looked upon the work of his own hands with 
a smile, that it should have succeeded so well 


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243 


He recalls, too, the hour, when, the task 
accomplished, the pencil dropped from the 
master’s dying hand, and his eyes closed to 
open on a more glorious transfiguration, and 
at length the dead Raphael lay in his own 
studio, before this wonderful painting, more 
glorious than any conqueror under the banners 
and armorial hatchments of his funeral ! 

“Think you that such sights and thoughts 
as these do not move the heart of a young 
man and an artist ? And when he goes forth 
into the open air, the sun is going down, and 
the gray ruins of an antique world receive 
him. From the Palace of the Caesars he looks 
down into the Forum, or towards the Coli- 
seum ; or westward sees the last sunshine 
strike the Bronze Archangel which stands 
upon the Tomb of Adrian. He walks amid 
a world of Art in ruins. The very street- 
lamps, that light him homeward, bum before 
some painted or sculptured image of the Ma- 
donna ! What wonder is it, if dreams visit him 
in his sleep, — nay, if his whole life seem to 
him a dream } What wonder, if, with a fever- 
ish heart and quick hand, he strive to repro- 
duce those dreams in marble or on canvas ^ ” 

Foolish Paul Flemming \ who both admired 


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and praised this little sketch, and yet was too 
blind to see that it was written from the heart, 
and not from the imagination ! Foolish Paul 
Flemming ! who thought that a girl of twenty 
could write thus without a reason ! Close 
upon this followed another pencil sketch, which 
he likewise read, with her permission. It was 
this. 

“ The whole period of the Middle Ages 
seems very strange to me. At times I cannot 
persuade myself that such things could have 
been as history tells us ; that such a strange 
world was a part of our world, — that such 
a strange life was a part of the life which 
seems to us, who are living it now, so pas- 
sionless and commonplace. It is only when 
I stand amid ruined castles, that look at me 
so mournfully, and behold the heavy armor 
of old knights, hanging upon the wainscot 
of. Gothic chambers ; or when I walk amid the 
aisles of some dusky minster, whose walls are 
narrative of hoar antiquity, and whose very 
bells have been baptized, and see the carved 
aaken stalls in the choir, where so many gen- 
erations of monks have sat and sung, and the 
tombs, where now they sleep in silence, to 
awake no more to their midnight psalms ; — 


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245 


it is only at such times that the history of the 
Middle Ages is a reality to me, and not a 
passage in romance. 

“ Likewise the illuminated manuscripts of 
those ages have something of this power of 
making the dead Past a living Present in my 
mind. What curious figures are emblazoned 
on the creaking parchment, making its yellow 
leaves laugh with gay colors! You seem to 
come upon them unawares. Their faces have 
an expression of wonder. They seem all to 
be just startled from their sleep by the sound 
you made when you unloosed the brazen 
clasps, and opened the ciiriously carved oaken 
covers, that turn on hinges, like the great 
gates of a city. To the building of that city 
some diligent monk gave the whole of a long 
life. With what strange denizens he peopled 
\t ! Adam and Eve standing under a tree, 
with apples in their hands ; — the patriarch 
Abraham, with a tree growing out of his body, 
and his descendants sitting like owls upon its 
branches ; — ladies with flowing locks of gold ; 
knights in armor, with most fantastic, long- 
toed shoes ; jousts and tournaments ; and 
Minnesingers, and lovers whose heads reach 
to the towers where their ladies sit ; — and all 


246 


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Fo angular, so nai’ve, so childlike, — all in such 
simple attitudes, with such great eyes, and 
holding up such long, lank fingers ! — These 
things are characteristic of the Middle Ages, 
and persuade me of the truth of history.’' 

At this moment Berkley entered, with a 
Swiss cottage, which he had bought as a pres- 
ent for somebody’s child in England ; and a 
cane with a chamois-horn on the end of it, 
which he had bought as a present for himself. 
This was the first time that Flemming had been 
sorry to see the good-natured man, whose 
presence now interrupted the delightful con- 
versation he was carrying on under four eyes 
with Mary Ashburton. He really thought 
him tedious, and wondered it had never oc- 
curred to him before. Mrs. Ashburton, too, 
must needs lay down her book ; and the con- 
versation became general. Strange to say, 
the Swiss dinner-hour of one o’clock did not 
come a moment too soon for Flemming. It 
did not even occur to him that it was early ; 
for he was seated beside Mary Ashburton ; 
and at dinner one can say so _ much, without 
being overheard. 


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247 


CHAPTER VI. 


After Dinner^ and after the Manner 
of the Best Critics 

HEN the learned Thomas Diafoirus 



^ » wooed the fair Angelique, he drew 
from his pocket a medical thesis, and pre- 
sented it to her, as the first-fruits of his genius ; 
and at the same time invited her, with her 
father’s permission, to attend the dissection of 
a woman, upon whom he was to lecture. Paul 
Flemming did nearly the same thing ; and so 
often, that it had become a habit. He was 
continually drawing from his pocket or his 
memory some scrap of song or story ; and 
inviting some fair Angelique, either with her 
father’s permission or without, to attend the 
dissection of an author upon whom he was to 
lecture. He soon gave proofs of this to Mary 
Ashburton. 

“ What books have we here for afternoon 
reading ? ” said Flemming, taking a volume 
from the table, when they had returned from 
the dining-room. “ O, it is Uhland’s Poems. 


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Have you read anything of his ? He and 
Tieck are generally considered the best living 
poets of Germany. They dispute the palm of 
superiority. Let me give you a lesson in Ger- 
man this afternoon, Miss Ashburton ; so that 
no one may accuse you of ‘ omitting the sweet 
benefit of time, to clothe your age with angel- 
like perfection.’ I have opened at random 
upon the ballad of the Black Knight. Do you 
repeat the German after me, and I will trans- 
late to you. Pfingsten war, das Fest def 
Freude ! ” 

I should never persuade my unwilling lips 
to pronounce such sounds. So I beg you not 
to perplex me with your German, but read me 
the ballad in English.” 

“ Well, then, listen. I will improvise a 
translation for your own particular benefit 

“’Twas Pentecost, the Feast of Gladness, 

When woods and fields put off all sadness. 

Thus began the king, and spake : 

* So from the halls 
Of ancient Hofburg’s walls 
A luxuriant spring shall break. * 

Drums and trumpets echo loudly, 

Wave the crimson banners proudly. 

From balcony the king looked on; 


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249 


In the play of spears, 

Fell all the cavaliers 

Before the monarch’s starwart son. 

To the barrier of the fight 

Rode at last a sable knight 

‘Sir Knight ! your name and scutcheon? say.* 

‘ Should I speak it here, 

Ye would stand aghast with fear ; 

I am a prince of mighty sway ! ’ 

“ When he rode into the lists, 

The arch of heaven grew black with mists, 
And the castle ’gan to rock. 

At the first blow. 

Fell the youth from saddle-bow, — 

Hardly rises from the shock. 

“ Pipe and viol call the dances. 

Torchlight through the high halls glances, 
Waves a mighty shadow in ; 

With manner bland 
Doth ask the maiden’s hand, 

Doth with her the dance begin ; 

“ Danced in sable iron sark. 

Danced a measure weird and dark. 

Coldly clasped her limbs around. 

From breast and hair 
Down fell from her the fair 
Flowerets, faded, to the ground. 

“To the sumptuous banquet came 
Every knight and every dame. 


II 


250 


Hyperion 


’Twixt son and daughter all distraught, 

With mournful mind 
The ancient king reclined, 

Gazed at them in silent thought 

'‘Pale the children both did look, 

But the guest a beaker took : 

‘ Golden wine will make you whole ! * 

The children drank, 

Gave many a courteous thank : 

‘ O, that draught was very cool ! ’ 

“ Each the father’s breast embraces, 

Son and daughter ; and their faces 
Colorless grow utterly. 

Whichever way 

Looks the fear-struck father gray. 

He beholds his children die. 

*“ Woe ! the blessed children both 
Takest thou in the joy of youth : 

Take me, too, the joyless father ! ’ 

Spake the grim guest. 

From his hollow, cavernous breast : 

‘ Roses in the spring I gather ! ’ ” 

That is indeed a striking ballad ! ” said 
Miss Ashburton, ‘‘but rather too grim and 
ghostly for this dull afternoon.” 

“ It begins joyously enough with the feast 
of Pentecost, and the crimson banners at the 
old castle. Then the contrast is well managed. 
The knight in black mail, and the waving in 


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251 


of the mighty shadow in the dance, and the 
dropping of the faded flowers, are all strikingly 
presented to the imagination. However, it 
tells its own story, and needs no explanation. 
Here is something in a different vein, though 
still melancholy. The Castle by the Sea. 
Shall I read it .? ” • 

“ Yes, if you like.” 

Flemming read : — 

“ ‘ Hast thou seen that lordly castle, 

That castle by the sea ? 

Golden and red above it 
The clouds float gorgeously. 

“ ‘ And fain it would stoop downward 
To the mirrored wave below ; 

And fain it would soar upward 
In the evening’s crimson glow.* 

“ ‘ Well have I seen that castle, 

That castle by the sea. 

And the moon above it standing. 

And the mist rise solemnly.’ 

“ ‘The winds and the waves of ocean. 

Had they a merry chime ? 

Didst thou hear, from those lofty chambers. 

The harp and the minstrel’s rhyme ? ’ 

** ‘ The -winds and the waves of ocean, 

They rested quietly ; 

But I heard on the gale a sound of wail. 

And tears came t© mine eye. ’ 


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“ ‘And sawest thou on the turrets 
The king and his royal bride, 

And the wave of their crimson mantleSj 
And the golden crown of pride ? 

“ ‘ Led they not forth, in rapture, 

A beauteous maiden there. 

Resplendent as the morning sun, 

Beaming with golden hair ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well saw I the ancient parents. 

Without the crown of pride ; 

They were moving slow, in weeds of woe j 
No maiden was by their side ! ’ 

“ How do you like that ? ” 

“ It is very graceful, and pretty. But 
Uhland seems to leave a great deal to his 
reader s imagination. All his readers should 
be poets themselves, or they will hardly com- 
prehend him. I confess, I hardly understand 
the passage where he speaks of the castle’s 
stooping downward to the mirrored wave 
below, and then soaring upward into the 
gleaming sky. I suppose, however, he wishes 
to express the momentary illusion we expe- 
rience when beholding a perfect reflection of 
an old tower in the sea. We look at it as if 
it were not a mere shadow in the water ; and 
yet the real tower rises far above, and seems 


A Romance 


253 

to float in the crimson evening clouds. Is 
that the meaning } ” 

I should think it was. To me it is all a 
beautiful cloud landscape, which I comprehend 
and feel, and yet should find some difficulty 
perhaps in explaining.” 

And why need one always explain } Some 
feelings are quite untranslatable. No lan- 
guage has yet been found for them. They 
gleam upon us beautifully through the dim 
twilight of fancy, and yet, when we bring 
them close to us, and hold them up to the 
light of reason, lose their beauty, all at once ; 
as glowworms, which glimmer with such a 
spiritual light in the shadows of evening, 
when brought in where the candles are light- 
ed, are found to be only worms, like so many 
others.” 

“Very true. We ought sometimes to be 
content with feeling. Here, now, is an ex- 
quisite piece, which soothes one like the fall 
of evening shadows, — like the dewy coolness 
of twilight after a sultry day. I shall not give 
you a bald translation of my own, because I 
have laid up in my memory another, which, 
though not very literal, equals the original in 
beauty. Observe how finely it commences. 


254 


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“ Many a year is in its grave 
Since I crossed this restless wave, 

And the evening, fair as ever. 

Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 

“Then, in this same boat, beside. 

Sat two comrades old and tried ; 

One with all a father’s truth. 

One with all the fire of youth. 

“ One on earth in silence wrought. 

And his grave in silence sought ; 

But the younger, brighter form 
Passed in battle and in storm. 

“ So, whene’er I turn my eye 
Back upon the days gone by. 

Saddening thoughts of friends come o’er me; 
Friends who closed their course before me. 

“Yet what binds us, friend to friend. 

But that soul with soul can blend ? 

Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 

Let us walk in soul once more ! 

“Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee ; 

Take, — I give it willingly ; 

For, invisible to thee. 

Spirits twain have crossed with me ! ” 

“ O, that is beautiful, — beautiful exceeding- 
ly ! Who translated it } ” 

I do not know. I wish I could find out 


A Romance 


255 


It is certainly admirably well done ; though 
in the measure of the original there is some- 
thing like the rocking motion of a boat, which 
is not preserved in the translation.” 

“And is Uhland always so soothing and 
spiritual } ” 

“ Yes, he generally looks into the spirit-world. 
I am now trying to find here a little poem on 
the Death of a Country Clergyman, in which 
he introduces a striking picture. But I can- 
not turn to it. No matter. He describes the 
spirit of the good old man, returning to earth 
on a bright summer morning, and standing 
amid the golden corn and the red and blue 
flowers, and mildly greeting the reapers as of 
old. But there is nothing morbid in Uhland’s 
mind. He is always fresh and invigorating, 
like a breezy morning. In this he differs 
entirely from such writers as Salis and Mat- 
thisson.” 

“ And who are they } ” 

“ Two melancholy gentlemen to whom life 
was only a Dismal Swamp, upon whose margin 
they walked with cambric handkerchiefs in 
their hands, sobbing and sighing, and making 
signals to Death to come and ferry them over 
the lake. And now their spirits stand in the 


256 


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green fields of German song like two weeping- 
willows bending over a grave. To read their 
poems is like wandering through a village 
church-yard on a summer evening, reading the 
inscriptions upon the grave-stones, and recall- 
ing sweet images of the departed ; while above 
you, 

‘ Hark ! in the holy grove of palms, 

Where the stream of life runs free, 

Echoes, in the angels’ psalms, 

Sister spirit ! hail to thee ! ’ ” 

“ How musically those lines flow ! Are they 
Matthisson’s } ” 

''Yes; and they do indeed flow musically. 
I wish I had his poems here. I should like to 
read to you his Elegy on the Ruins of an 
Ancient Castle. It is an imitation of Gray’s 
Elegy. You have been at Baden-Baden ? ” 

" Yes ; last summer.” 

" And have not forgotten ” 

" The old castle ? Of course not. What a 
magnificent ruin it is ? ” 

" That is the scene of Matthisson’s poem, 
and seems to have filled the melancholy bard 
with more than wonted inspiration.” 

" I should very much like to see the poem, — 
I remember that old ruin with so much de- 
light.” 


A Romance 


257 


I am sorry I have not a translation of it for 
you. Instead of it, I will give you a sweet 
and mournful poem from Sails. It is called 
The Song of the Silent Land. 

“ Into the Silent Land ! 

Ah ! who shall lead us thither ? 

Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, 

And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. 

Who leads us with a gentle hand 
Thither, O, thither, 

Into the Silent Land ? 

“ Into the Silent Land ! 

To you, ye boundless regions 

Of all perfection ! Tender morning- visions 

Of beauteous souls ! The Future’s pledge and band ! 

Who in Life’s .battle firm doth stand 

Shall bear Hope’s tender blossoms 

Into the Silent Land ! 

“ O Land ! O Land ! 

For all the broken-hearted 

The mildest herald by our fate allotted 

Beckons, and with inverted torch doth stand 

To lead us with a gentle hand 

Into the land of the great departed, 

Into the Silent Land ! 

Is not that a beautiful poem 1 ” 

Mary Ashburton made no answer. She had 
turned away to hide her tears. Flemming won- 

Q 


258 Hyperion 

dered that Berkley could say she was not beau- 
tiful. Still he was rather pleased than offended 
at it. He felt at that moment how sweet a 
thing it would be to possess one who should 
€eem beautiful to him alone, and yet to him 
be more beautiful than all the world beside ! 
How bright the world became to him at that 
thought ! It was like one of those paintings 
in which all the light streams from the face of 
the Virgin. O, there is nothing holier, in this 
life of ours, than the first consciousness of love, 
— the first fluttering of its silken wings ; the 
first rising sound and breath of wind which is 
;30 soon to sweep through the soul, to purify or 
to destroy ! 

Old histories tell us that the great Emperor 
Charlemagne stamped his edicts with the hilt 
of his sword. The greater Emperor, Death, 
stamps with the blade ; and they are signed 
and executed with the same stroke. Flem- 
ming received that night a letter from Heidel- 
berg, which told him that Emma of Ilmenau 
was dead. The fate of this poor girl affected 
him deeply ; and he said in his heart : — 

“ Father in heaven ! Why was the lot of 
this weak and erring child so hard } What had 
she done, to be so tempted in her weakness, 


A Romafice 


259 

and perish ? Why didst thou suffer her gentle 
affections to lead her thus astray ? ” 

And, through the silence of the awful mid- 
night, the voice of an avalanche answered 
from the distant mountains, and seemed to 
say : — 

“ Peace ! peace ! Why dost thou question 
God's providence ? ” 


26 o 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER VII. 

Take Care! 

F air is the valley of Laiiterbrunnen, with 
its green meadows and overhanging cliffs. 
The ruined castle of Unspunnen stands like 
an armed warder at the gate of the enchanted 
land. In calm serenity the snowy mountains 
rise beyond. Fairer than the Rock of Balma- 
rusa, yon frowning precipice looks down upon 
us ; and, from the topmost cliff, the white pen- 
non of the Brook of Dust shimmers and waves 
in the sunny air! 

It was a bright, beautiful morning after night- 
rain. Every dew-drop and rain-drop had a 
whole heaven within it ; and so had the heart 
of Paul Flemming, as, with Mrs. Ashburton 
and her dark-eyed daughter, he drove up the 
Valley of Lauterbrunnen, — the Valley of 
Fountains-Only. 

“ How beautiful the Jungfrau looks this 
morning ! ” exclaimed he, looking at Mary 
Ashburton. 


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261 


She thought he meant the mountain, and 
assented. But he meant her likewise. 

“ And the mountains beyond,” he continued, 
the Monk and the Silver-horn, the Wetter- 
horn, the Schreck-horn, and the Schwarz-horn, 
— all those sublime apostles of Nature, whose 
sermons are avalanches ! Did you ever behold 
anything more grand ? ” 

“ O yes ! Mont Blanc is more grand, when 
you behold it from the hills opposite. It was 
there that I was most moved by the magnifi- 
cence of Swiss scenery. It was a morning 
like this ; and the clouds, that were hovering 
about on their huge, shadowy wings, made the 
scene only the more magnificent. Before me 
lay the whole panorama of the Alps ; pine 
forests standing dark and solemn at the base 
of the mountains ; and half-way up a veil of 
mist ; above which rose the snowy summits 
and sharp needles of rock, which seemed to 
float in the air, like a fairy world. Then the 
glaciers stood on either side, winding down 
through the mountain ravines ; and high above 
all rose the white, dome-like summit of Mont 
Blanc. And ever and anon from the shroud 
of mist came the awful sound of an avalanche, 
and a continual roar, as of the wind through 


262 


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a forest of pines, filled the air. It was the 
roar of the Arve and Aveiron, breaking from 
their icy fountains. Then the mists began 
to pass away ; and it seemed as if the whole 
firmament were rolling together. It recalled 
to my mind that sublime passage in the Apoc- 
alypse : ‘ I saw a great white throne, and 
him that sat thereon, before whose face the 
heavens and the earth fled away, and found 
no place ! ’ — I cannot believe that upon this 
earth there is a more magnificent scene ! ” 

‘‘It must be grand indeed,” replied Flem- 
ming. “ And those mighty glaciers, — huge 
monsters with bristling crests, creeping down 
into the valley ! for it is said they really 
move.” 

“ Yes ; it filled me with a strange sensation 
of awe to think of this. They seemed to me 
like the dragons of Northern Romance, which 
come down from the mountains and devour 
whole villages. A little hamlet in Chamouni 
was once abandoned by its inhabitants, ter- 
rified at the approach of the icy dragon. 
But is it possible you have never been at 
Chamouni ? ” 

“Never. The great marvel still remains 
unseen by me.” 


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263 


“ Then how can you linger here so long ? 
Were I in your place, I would not lose an 
hour.” 

These words passed over the opening blos- 
soms of hope in the soul of Flemming like 
a cold wind over the flowers in spring-time. 
He bore it as best he could, and changed the 
subject. 

I do not mean to describe the valley of Lau- 
terbrunnen, nor the bright day passed there. 
I know that my gentle reader is blessed with 
the divine gift of a poetic fancy ; and can see 
already how the mountains rise, and the tor- 
rents fall, and the beautiful valley lies between ; 
and how, along the dusty road, the herdsman 
blows his horn, and travellers come and go in 
charabancs y like Punch and J udy in a show-box. 
He knows already how romantic ladies sketch 
romantic scenes ; and how cold meat tastes 
under the shadow of trees ; and how time flies, 
when we are in love., and the beloved one near. 
One little incident I must, however, mention, 
lest his fancy should not suggest it. 

Flemming was still sitting with the ladies 
on the green slope near the Staubbach, or 
Brook of Dust, when a young man clad in 
green came down the valley. It was a Ger- 


264 


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man mechanic, with flaxen ringlets hanging 
over his shoulders, and a guitar in his hand. 
His step was free and elastic, and his counte- 
nance wore the joyous expression of youth and 
health. He approached the company with a 
courteous salutation ; and, after the manner 
of travelling apprentices, asked charity with 
the confident air of one unaccustomed to 
refusal. Nor was he refused in this instance. 
The presence of those we love makes us Com- 
passionate and generous. Flemming gave him 
a piece of gold ; and, after a short conversa- 
tion, he seated himself at a little distance on 
the grass, and began to play and sing. Won- 
derful and many were the soft accords and 
plaintive sounds that came from that little 
instrument, touched by the clever hand. Every 
feeling of the human heart seemed to find an 
expression there, and awaken a kindred feel- 
ing in the hearts of those who heard him. 
He sang strange German songs, so full of 
longing, and of pleasing sadness, and hope, 
and fear, and passionate desire, and soul-sub- 
duing sorrow, that the tears came into Mary 
Ashburton’s eyes, though she understood not 
the words he sang. Then his countenance 
glowed with triumph, and he beat the strings 
like a drum, and sang : — 


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265 


“ O, how the drum beats so loud ! 

Close beside me in the fight, 

My dying brother says, Good Night ! 

And the cannon’s awful breath 
Screams the loud halloo of Death ! 

And the drum. 

And the drum. 

Beats so loud ! ” 

Many were the words of praise when the 
young musician ended ; and, as he rose to 
depart, they still entreated for one song more. 
Whereupon he played a lively prelude ; and, 
looking full into Flemming’s face, sang, with a 
pleasant smile and still in German, this little 
song : — 

“ I know a maiden fair to see ; 

Take care ! 

She can both false and friendly be. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ! 

“ She has two eyes, so soft and brown ; 

Take care ! 

She gives a side-glance and looks down. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ! 

“ And she has hair of a golden hue ; 

Take care ! 


JZ 


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And what she says, it is not true. 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 

She is fooling thee ! 

“ She has a bosom as white as snow ; 
Take care ! 

She knows how much it is best to show. 
Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ! 

She gives thee a garland woven fair ; 
Take care ! 

It is a fool’s-cap for thee to wear. 
Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not. 

She is fooling thee ! ” 


The last stanza he sung in a laughing, tri- 
umphant tone, which resounded above the loud 
clang of his guitar like the jeering laugh of 
Till EulenspiegeL Then, slinging his guitar 
over his shoulder, he took off his green cap, 
and made a leg to the ladies, in the style of 
Gil Bias ; waved his hand in the air, and walked 
quickly down the valley, singing, “ Ad6 ! Ad^ ! 
^d6 ! ” 


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267 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The Fountain of Oblivion 

HE power of magic in the Middle Ages 



created monsters who followed the un- 
happy magician everywhere. The power of 
love in all ages creates angels, who likewise 
follow the happy or unhappy lover everywhere, 
even in his dreams. By such an angel was 
Paul Flemming now haunted, both when he 
waked and when he slept. He walked as in 
a dream, and was hardly conscious of the pres- 
ence of those around him. A sweet face looked 
at him from every page of every book he read ; 
and it was the face of Mary Ashburton ! — 
a sweet voice spake to him in every sound he 
heard ; and it was the voice of Mary Ashbur- 
ton ! Day and night succeeded each other, 
with pleasant interchange of light and dark- 
ness ; but to him the passing of time was only 
as a dream. When he arose in the morning, 
he thought only of her, and wondered if she 
were yet awake ; and when he lay down at 


268 


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night, he thought only of her, and how, like 
the Lady Christabel, 

“ Her gentle limbs she did undress, 

And lay down in her loveliness. ” 

And the livelong day he was with her, either 
in reality or in day-dreams hardly less real ; for, 
in each delirious vision of his waking hours, 
her beauteous form passed like the form of 
Beatrice through Dante’s heaven ; and, as he 
lay in the summer afternoon, and heard at 
times the sound of the wind in the trees, and 
the sound of Sabbath bells ascending up to 
heaven, holy wishes and prayers ascended with 
them from his inmost soul, beseeching that 
he might not love in vain ! And whenever, 
in silence and alone, he looked into the silent, 
lonely countenance of Night, he recalled the 
impassioned lines of Plato : — 

“ Lookest thou at the stars ? If I were heaven, 

With all the eyes of heaven would I look down on thee ! ” 

O, how beautiful it is to love ! Even thou, 
that sneerest at this page, and laughest in cold 
indifference or scorn, if others are near thee, 
— thou too must acknowledge its truth, when 
thou art alone ; and confess that a foolish world 
is prone to laugh in public at what in private 


A Romance 269 

it reveres, as one of the highest impulses of 
our nature, — namely. Love ! 

One by one the objects of our affection 
depart from us. But our affections remain, 
and like vines stretch forth their broken, 
wounded tendrils for support. The bleeding 
heart needs a balm to heal it ; and there is 
none but the love of its kind, — none but the 
affection of a human heart ! Thus the wound- 
ed, broken affections of Flemming began to lift 
themselves from the dust and cling around this 
new object. Days and weeks passed ; and, 
like the student Crisostomo, he ceased to love, 
because he began to adore. And with this 
adoration mingled the prayer, that, in that 
hour when the world is still, and the voices 
that praise are mute, and reflection cometh 
like twilight, and the maiden, in her day-dreams, 
counted the number of her friends, some voice 
in the sacred silence of her thoughts might 
whisper his name ! 

They were sitting together one morning, on 
the green, flowery meadow, under the ruins of 
Burg Unspunnen. She was sketching the 
ruins. The birds were singing, one and all, as 
if there were no aching hearts, no sin nor sor- 
row in the world. So motionless was the 


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bright air, that the shadow of the trees lay 
engraven on the grass. The distant snow- 
peaks sparkled in the sun, and nothing frowned, 
save the square tower of the old ruin above 
them. 

“ What a pity it is,” said the lady, as she 
stopped to rest her weary fingers, “what a 
pity it is, that there is no old tradition con- 
nected with this ruin ! ” 

“I will make you one, if you wish,” said 
Flemming. 

“ Can you make old traditions ? ” 

“ O, yes ! I made three, the other day, about 
the Rhine, and one very old one about the 
Black Forest. A lady with dishevelled hair ; 
a robber with a horrible slouched hat ; and a 
night storm among the roaring pines.” 

“ Delightful ! Do make one for me.” 

“With the greatest pleasure. Where will 
you have the scene } Here, or in the Black 
Forest } ” 

“ In the Black Forest, by all means ! Begin.” 

“ I will unite this ruin and the forest to- 
gether. But first promise not to interrupt me. 
If you snap the golden threads of thought, 
they will float away on the air like the film of 
the gossamer, and I shall never be able to * re- 
cover them.” 


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271 


“ I promise.” 

“ Listen, then, to the tradition of The Foun- 
tain OF Oblivion.” 

“ Begin.” 

Flemming was reclining on the flowery turf, 
at the lady’s feet, looking up with dreamy eyes 
into her sweet face, and then into the leaves 
of the linden-trees overhead. 

“ Gentle lady ! Dost thou remember the 
linden-trees of Biilach, — those tall and stately 
trees, with velvet down upon their shining 
leaves, and rustic benches underneath their 
overhanging eaves ^ A leafy dwelling, fit to 
be the home of elf or fairy, where first I told 
my love to thee, thou cold and stately Her- 
mione ! A little peasant-girl stood near, and 
listened all the while, with eyes of wonder 
and delight, and an unconscious smile, to hear 
the stranger still speak on, in accents deep 
yet mild, — none else was with us in that 
hour, save God and that little child ! ” 

Why, it is in rhyme ! ” 

“ No, no ! the rhyme is only in your imagi- 
nation. You promised not to interrupt me, 
and you have already snapped asunder the 
gossamer threads of as sweet a dream as was 
ever spun from a poet’s brain.” 


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It certainly did rhyme ! ” 

“ This was the reverie of the student Hie- 
ronymus, as he sat at midnight in a chamber of 
this old tower, with his hands clasped together, 
and resting upon an open volume, which he 
should have been reading. His pale face was 
raised, and the pupils of his eyes dilated, as if 
the spirit-world were open before him, and 
some beauteous vision were standing there, 
and drawing the student’s soul through his 
eyes up into heaven, — as the evening sun, 
through parting summer-clouds, seems to draw 
into its bosom the vapors of the earth. O, 
it was a lovely vision ! I can see it before me 
now ! 

“Near the student stood an antique bronze 
lamp, with strange figures carved upon it. It 
was a magic lamp, which once belonged to the 
Arabian astrologer El Geber, in Spain. Its 
light was beautiful as the light of stars ; and, 
night after night, as the lonely wight sat alone 
and read in this lofty tower, through the mist, 
and murk, and dropping rain, it streamed out 
into the darkness, and was seen by many 
wakeful eyes. To the poor student Hierony- 
mus it was a wonderful Aladdin’s Lamp ; for 
in its flame a Divinity revealed herself unto 


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273 


him, and showed him treasures. Whenever 
he opened a ponderous, antiquated tome, it 
seemed as if some angel opened for him the 
gates of Paradise ; and already he was known 
in the land as Hieronymus the Learned. 

“ But, alas ! he could read no more. The 
charm was broken. Hour after hour he 
passed with his hands clasped before him, and 
his fair eyes gazing at vacancy. What could 
so disturb the studies of this melancholy 
wight } Lady, he was in love ! Have you 
ever been in love ? He had seen the face of 
the beautiful Hermione ; and as, when we 
have thoughtlessly looked at the sun, our daz- 
zled eyes, though closed, behold it still, so he 
beheld by day and by night the radiant image 
of her upon whom he had too rashly gazed. 
Alas ! he was unhappy ; for the proud Her- 
mione disdained the love of a poor student, 
whose only wealth was a magic lamp. In 
marble halls, and amid the gay crowd that 
worshipped her, she had almost forgotten that 
such a being lived as the student Hieronymus. 
The adoration of his heart had been to her 
only as the perfume of a wild-flower which she 
had carelessly crushed with her foot in pass- 
ing. But he had lost all ; for he had lost the 


2 74 Hyperion 

quiet of his thoughts ; and his agitated soul 
reflected only broken and distorted images of 
things. The world laughed at the poor stu- 
dent, who, in his threadbare cassock, dared to 
lift his eyes to the Lady Hermione ; while he 
sat alone, in his desolate chamber, and suffered 
in silence. He remembered many things 
which he would fain have forgotten ; but 
which, if he had forgotten them, he would have 
wished again to remember. Such were the 
linden-trees of Biilach, under whose pleasant 
shades he had told his love to Hermione. 
This was the scene which he wished most to 
forget, yet loved most to remember ; and of 
this he was now dreaming, with his hands 
clasped upon his book, and that music in his 
thoughts, which you, lady, mistook for rhyme. 

“Suddenly, with a melancholy clang, the 
convent clock struck twelve. It roused the 
student Hieronymus from his dream ; and 
rang in his ears, like the iron hoofs of the 
steeds of Time. The magic hour had come, 
when the Divinity of the lamp most willingly 
revealed herself to her votary. The bronze 
figures seemed alive ; a white cloud rose from 
the flame and spread itself through the cham^ 
her ; the four walls dilated into magnificent 


A Romance 


275 


cloud-vistas ; a fragrance, as of wild-flowers, 
filled the air ; and a dreamy music, like dis- 
tant, sweet-chiming bells, announced the ap- 
proach of the midnight Divinity. Through 
his streaming tears the heart-broken student 
beheld her once more descending a pass in the 
snowy cloud-mountains, as, at evening, the 
dewy Hesperus comes from the bosom of the 
mist, and assumes his station in the sky. At 
her approach, his spirit grew more calm ; foi 
her presence was, to his feverish heart, like a 
tropical night, — beautiful and soothing and 
invigorating. At length she stood before him, 
revealed in all her beauty ; and he compre- 
hended the visible language of her sweet but 
silent lips, which seemed to say, * What would 
the student Hieronymus to-night ' Peace ! ’ 
he answered, raising his clasped hands, and 
smiling through his tears. ‘ The student Hie- 
ronymus imploreth peace ! ’ — ‘ Then go,’ said 
the spirit, ' go to the Fountain of Oblivion in 
the deepest solitude of the Black Forest, and 
cast this scroll into its waters ; and thou shalt 
be at peace once more.’ Hieronymus opened 
his arms to embrace the Divinity, for her 
countenance assumed the features of Her- 
mione ; but she vanished away ; the music 


Hyperion 


276 

ceased ; the gorgeous cloud-land sank and fell 
asunder ; and the student was alone within 
the four bare walls of his chamber. As he 
bowed his head downward, his eye fell upon a 
parchment scroll, which was lying beside the 
lamp. Upon it was written only the name of 
Hermione ! 

‘‘The next morning Hieronymus put the 
scroll into his bosom, and went his way in 
search of the Fountain of Oblivion. A few 
days brought him to the skirts of the Black 
Forest. He entered, not without a feeling of 
dread, that land of shadows ; and passed on- 
ward, under melancholy pines and cedars, 
whose branches grew abroad and mingled to- 
gether, and, as they swayed up and down, 
filled the air with solemn twilight and a sound 
of sorrow. As he advanced into the forest, 
the waving moss hung, like curtains, from the 
branches overhead, and more and more shut 
©ut the light of heaven ; and he knew that the 
Fountain of Oblivion was not far off. Even 
then the sound of falling waters was mingling 
with the roar of the pines above him ; and ere- 
long he came to a river, moving in solemn 
majesty through the forest, and falling with a 
dull, leaden sound into a motionless and stag- 


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277 


nant lake, above which the branches of the 
forest met and mingled, forming perpetual 
night. This was the Fountain of Oblivion. 

“Upon its brink the student paused, and 
gazed into the dark waters with a steadfast 
look. They were limpid waters, dark with 
shadows only.. And as he gazed, he beheld, 
far down in their silent depths, dim and ill- 
defined outlines, wavering to and fro, like the 
folds of a white garment in the twilight. 
Then more distinct and permanent shapes 
arose, — shapes familiar to his mind, yet for- 
gotten and remembered again, as the frag- 
ments of a dream ; till at length, far, far below 
him, he beheld the great City of the Past, with 
silent marble streets, and moss-grown walls, 
and spires uprising with a wave-like, flickering 
motion. 

“ And amid the crowd that thronged those 
streets, he beheld faces once familiar and dear 
to him ; and heard sorrowful, sweet voices 
singing, O, forget us not ! forget us not ! and 
then the distant, mournful sound of funeral 
bells, that were tolling below, in the City of 
the Past. But in the gardens of that city 
there were children playing, and among them 
one who wore his features, as they had been 


278 


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in childhood. He was leading a little girl by 
the hand, and caressed her often, and adorned 
her with flowers. Then, like a dream, the 
scene changed, and the boy had grown older, 
and stood alone, gazing into the sky ; and as 
he gazed, his countenance changed again, and 
Hieronymus beheld him, as if it had been his 
own image in the clear water ; and before him 
stood a beauteous maiden, whose face was like 
the face of Hermione, and he feared lest the 
scroll had fallen into the water, as he bent 
over it. 

Starting, as from a dream, he put his hand 
into his bosom, and breathed freely again, 
when he found the scroll still there. He drew 
it forth, and read the blessed name of Her- 
mione, and the city beneath him vanished 
away, and the air grew fragrant as with the 
breath of May-flowers, and a light streamed 
through the shadowy forest, and gleamed upon 
the lake ; and the student Hieronymus pressed 
the dear name to his lips, and exclaimed, with 
streaming eyes : ‘ O, scorn me as thou wilt, 
still, still will I love thee ; and thy name shall 
irradiate the gloom of my life, and make the 
waters of Oblivion smile ! ’ And the name 
was no longer Hermione, but was changed 


A 'Romance 


279 


to Mary; and the student Hieronymus — is 
lying at your feet ! O gentle Lady, 

‘ I did hear you talk 

Far above singing ; after you were gone, 

I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched 
What stirred it so ! Alas ! I found it love. ’ ” 


\ 


28 o 


Hyperion 


CHAPTER IX. 

A Talk on the Stairs 

O I I will not describe that scene ; nor 



^ ^ how pale the stately lady sat on the 
border of the green, sunny meadow ! The 
hearts of some women tremble like leaves at 
every breath of love which reaches them, and 
then are still again. Others, like the ocean, 
are moved only by the breath of a storm, and 
not so easily lulled to rest. And such was the 
proud heart of Mary Ashburton. It had 
remained unmoved by the presence of this 
stranger ; and the sound of his footsteps and 
his voice excited in it no emotion. He had 
deceived himself ! Silently they walked home- 
ward through the green meadow. The very 
sunshine was sad ; and the rising wind, through 
the old ruin above them, sounded in his ears 
like a hollow laugh ! 

Flemming went straight to his chamber. 
On the way, he passed the walnut-trees under 
which he had first seen the face of Mary Ash- 


A Romance 


281 


burton. Involuntarily he closed his eyes. 
They were full of tears. O, there are places 
in this fair world which we never wish to see 
again, however dear they may be to us ! The 
towers of the old Franciscan convent never 
looked so gloomily as then, though the bright 
summer sun was shining full upon them. 

In his chamber he found Berkley. He was 
looking out of the window, whistling. 

“This evening I leave Interlachen forev- 
er,” said Flemming, rather abruptly. Berkley 
stared. 

“ Indeed ! Pray what is the matter } You 
look as pale as a ghost ! ” 

“And have good reason to look pale,” re- 
plied Flemming bitterly. “ Hoffmann says, in 
one of his note-books, that on the eleventh 
of March, at half past eight o’clock, precisely, 
he was an ass. That is what I was this morn- 
ing, at half past ten o’clock, precisely, and am 
now, and I suppose always shall be.” 

He tried to laugh, but could not. He then 
related to Berkley the whole story, from begin- 
ning to end. 

“ This is a miserable piece of business ! ’* 
exclaimed Berkley, when he had finished. 

Strange enough ! And yet I have long 


282 


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ceased to marvel at the caprices of women. 
Did not Pan captivate the chaste Diana ? Did 
not Titania love Nick Bottom with his ass’s 
head. Do you think that maidens’ eyes are no 
longer touched with the juice of love-in-idle- 
ness ^ Take my word for it, she is in love with 
somebody else. There must be some reason 
for this. No ; women never have any reasons, 
except their will. But never mind. Keep a 
stout heart. Care killed a cat. After all, — 
what is she ? Who is she ? Only a ” 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” exclaimed Flemming, in 
great excitement. “Not one word more, I 
beseech you. Do not think to console me by 
depreciating her. She is very dear to me still ; 
a beautiful, high-minded, noble woman.” 

“ Y es,” answered Berkley ; “ that is the way 
with you all, you young men. You see a sweet 
face, or a something, you know not what, and 
flickering reason says. Good night ; amen to 
common sense ! The imagination invests the 
beloved object with a thousand superlative 
charms ; adorns her with all the purple and 
fine linen, all the rich apparel and furniture, 
of human nature. I did the same when I was 
young. I was once as desperately in love as 
you are now ; and went through all the 


A Romance 


283 


* Delicious deaths, soft exhalations 
Of soul, dear and divine annihilations ; 

A thousand unknown rites 
Of joys, and rarefied delights.’ 

I adored and was rejected. ‘You are in love 
with certain attributes,’ said the lady. ‘ Damn 
your attributes, Madam,’ said I ; ‘ I know noth- 
ing about attributes.’ — ‘Sir,’ said she, with 
dignity, ‘you have been drinking.’ — So we 
parted. She was married afterwards to another, 
who knew something about attributes, I sup- 
pose. I have seen her once since, and only 
once. She had a baby in a yellow gown. I 
hate a baby in a yellow gown. How glad I am 
she did not marry me ! One of these days, you 
will be glad you have been rejected. Take 
my word for it.” 

“All that does not prevent my lot from 
being a very melancholy one ! ” said Flemming 
sadly. 

“ O, never mind the lot,” cried Berkley laugh- 
ing, “ so long as you do n’t get Lot’s wife. If 
the cucumber is bitter, throw it away, as the 
philosopher Marcus Antoninus says, in his 
Meditations. Forget her, and all will be as if 
you had not known her.” 

“ I shall never forget her,” replied Flemming, 


284 


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rather solemnly. “ Not my pride, but my affec- 
tions are wounded ; and the wound is too deep 
ever to heal. I shall carry it with me always. 
I enter no more into the world, but will dwell 
©nly in the world of my own thoughts. All 
great and unusual occurrences, whether of joy 
or sorrow, lift us above this earth ; and we 
should do well always to preserve this eleva- 
tion. Hitherto I have not done so. But now 
I will no more descend ; I will sit apart and 
above the world, with my mournffil, yet holy 
thoughts.” 

“Whew! You had better go into society ; 
the whirl and delirium will cure you in a week. 
If you find a lady who pleases you very much, 
and you wish to marry her, and she will not 
listen to such a horrid thing, I see but one 
remedy, which is to find another, who pleases 
you more, and who will listen to it.” 

“ No, my friend ; you do not understand my 
character,” said Flemming, shaking his head. 
“ I love this woman with a deep and lasting 
affection. I shall never cease to love her. 
This may be madness in me ; but so it is. 
Alas and alas ! Paracelsus of old wasted life 
in trying to discover its elixir, which after all 
turned out to be alcohol ; and instead of being 


A Romance 


2^5 


made immortal upon earth, he died drunk on 
the floor of a tavern. The like happens to many 
of us. We waste our best years in distilling 
the sweetest flowers of life into love-potions, 
which after all do not immortalize, but only 
intoxicate us. By Heaven! we are all of us 
mad.’’ 

“ But are you sure the case is utterly hope- 
less.?” 

Utterly I utterly I ” 

“ And yet I perceive you have not laid aside 
all hope. You still flatter yourself that the 
lady’s heart may change. The great secret of 
happiness consists not in enjoying, but in re- 
nouncing. But it is hard, very hard. Hope 
has as many lives as a cat or a king. I dare 
say you have heard the old proverb, ‘ The king 
never dies.’ But perhaps you have never 
heard that, at the court of Naples, when the 
dead body of a monarch lies in state, his din- 
ner is carried up to him as usual, and the 
court physician tastes it, to see that it be not 
poisoned, and then the servants bear it out 
again, saying, 'The king does not dine to-day.’ 
Hope in our souls is king ; and we also say, 

‘ The king never dies.’ Even when in reality 
he lies dead within us, in solemn mockery we 


286 


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offer him his accustomed food, but are con- 
strained to say, 'The king does not dine to^ 
day.’ It must be an evil day, indeed, when a 
king of Naples has nc^ heart for his dinner 1 
but you yourself are a proof that the king 
never dies. You are feeding your king, al- 
though you say he is dead.” 

"To show you that I do not wish to cherish 
hope,” replied Flemming, " I shall leave Inter- 
lachen to-morrow morning. I am going to 
the Tyrol.” 

“You are right,” said Berkley; “there is 
nothing so good for sorrow as rapid motion in 
the open air. I shall go with you ; though 
probably your conversation will not be very 
various ; nothing but Edward and Kunigunde.” 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ Go to Berlin, and you will find out. How- 
ever, jesting apart, I will do all I can to cheer 
you, and make you forget the Dark Ladie, and 
this untoward accident.” 

“ Accident ! ” said Flemming. “ This is no 
accident, but God’s providence, which brought 
us together, to punish me for my sins.” 

“ O my friend,” interrupted Berkley, “ if you 
see the finger of Providence so distinctly in 
every act of your life, you will end by thinking 


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yourself an Apostle and Envoy Extraordinary. 
I see nothing so very uncommon in what has 
happened to you.” 

What ! not when our souls are so akin to 
each other ? when we seemed so formed to be 
together, — to be one ? ” 

I have often observed,” replied Berkley 
coldly, “ that those who are of kindred souls 
rarely wed together ; almost as rarely as those 
who are akin by blood. Therefore, mad lover, 
do not think to persuade thyself and thy 
scornful lady that you have kindred souls ; 
but rather the contrary, — that you are much 
unlike, and each wanting in those qualities 
which most mark and distinguish the other. 
Trust me, thy courtship will then be more 
prosperous. But good morning. I must pre- 
pare for this sudden journey.” 

On the following morning, Flemming and 
Berkley started on their way to Innsbruck, 
like Huon of Bordeaux and Scherasmin on 
their way to Babylon. Berkley’s self-assumed 
duty was to console his companion; a duty 
which he performed like an ancient Spanish 
Despenadora, whose business was to attend 
the sick, and put her elbow into the stomach 
of the dying, to shorten their agony. 



BOOK THE FOURTH 


Mortal, they softly say, 

Peace to thy heart ! 

We too, yes, mortal, 

Have been as thou art ; 
Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, 
Seeing in part. 

Tried, troubled, tempted. 

Sustained, — as thou art. 

Caroline Southey, 














BOOK THE FOURTH 


CHAPTER I. 

A Miserere 

TN the Orlando Innamorato, Malagigi, the 
necromancer, puts all the company to sleep 
by reading to them from a book. Some books 
have this power of themselves and need no 
necromancer. Fearing, Gentle Reader, that 
mine may be of this kind, I have provided 
these introductory chapters from time to time, 
like stalls or Misereres in a church, with 
flowery canopies and poppy-heads over them, 
where thou mayest sit down and sleep. 

No, — the figure is not a bad one. This 
book does somewhat resemble a minster, in 
the Romanesque style, with pinnacles, and fly- 
ing buttresses, and roofs. 


' Gargoyled with greyhounds, and with many lions 
Made of fine gold, with divers sundry dragcms,” 


292 


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You step into its shade and coolness out of 
the hot streets of life ; a mysterious light 
streams through the painted glass of the mari- 
gold windows, staining the cusps and crum- 
pled leaves of the window-shafts, and the 
cherubs and holy-water-stoups below. Here 
and there is an image of the Virgin Mary ; 
and other images, “ in divers vestures, called 
weepers, stand in housings made about the 
tomb ” ; and above all swells the vast dome of 
heaven, with its star-mouldings, and the flam- 
ing constellations, like the mosaics in the dome 
of St. Peter’s. Have you not heard funeral 
psalms from the chantry ? Have you not 
heard the sound of church-bells, as I promised, 

— mysterious sounds from the Past and Fu- 
ture, as from the belfries outside the cathedral, 

— even such a mournful, mellow, watery peal 
of bells, as is heard sometimes at sea, from 
cities afar off below the horizon ? 

I know not how this Romanesque, and at 
times flamboyant, style of architecture may 
please the critics. They may wish, perhaps, 
that I had omitted some of my many orna- 
ments, my arabesques, and roses, and fantastic 
spouts, and Holy-Roods and Galilee-steeples. 
But would it then have been Romanesque ? 


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293 


But perhaps, Gentle Reader, thou art one of 
those who think the days of romance gone for- 
ever. Believe it not ! O, believe it not ! Thou 
hast at this moment in thy heart as sweet a 
romance as was ever written. Thou art not 
less a woman, because thou dost not sit aloft 
in a tower, with a tassel-gentle on thy wrist. 
Thou art not less a man, because thou wearest 
no hauberk, nor mail-sark, and goest not on 
horseback after foolish adventures. Every one 
has a romance in his own heart. All that has 
blessed or awed the world lies there ; and 

‘ The oracle within him, that which lives. 

He must invoke and question, — not dead books, 

Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers. ” 


Sooner or later, some passages of every 
one’s romance must be written, either in 
words or actions. They will proclaim the 
truth ; for Truth is thought which has assumed 
its appropriate garments, either of words or 
actions ; while Falsehood is thought which, 
disguised in words or actions not its own, 
comes before the blind old world, as Jacob 
came before the patriarch Isaac, clothed in the 
goodly raiment of his brother Esau. And the 
world, like the patriarch, is often deceived; 


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for though the voice is Jacob’s voice, yet the 
hands are the hands of Esau, and the False 
takes away the birthright and the blessing 
from the True. Hence it is that the world so 
often lifts up its voice and weeps. 

That very pleasing and fanciful Chinese ro- 
mance, the Shadow in the Water, ends with 
the hero’s marrying both the heroines. I hope 
my gentle reader feels curious to know the 
end of this romance, which is a shadow upon 
the earth ; and see whether there be any mar- 
riage at all in it. 

That is the very point I am now thinking 
of, as I sit here at my pleasant chamber- 
window, and enjoy the balmy air of a bright 
summer morning, and watch the motions of 
the golden robin that sits on its swinging nest 
on the outermost pendulous branch of yonder 
elm. The broad meadows and the steel-blue 
river remind me of the meadows of Unterseen 
and the river Aar ; and beyond them rise 
magnificent snow-white clouds, piled up like 
Alps. Thus the shades of Washington and 
William Tell seem to walk together on these 
Elysian Fields ; for it was here that, in days 
long gone, our great patriot dwelt ; and yon- 
der clouds so much resemble the snowy Alps. 


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295 


that they remind me irresistibly of the Swiss. 
Noble examples of a high purpose and a fixed 
will ! Do they not move, Hyperion-like, on 
high ? Were they not, likewise, sons of 
Heaven and Earth > 

Nothing can be more lovely than these 
summer mornings ; nor than the southern 
window at which I sit and write, in this old 
mansion, which is like an Italian villa. But 

0 this lassitude, — this weariness, — when all 
around me is so bright ! I have this morning 
a singular longing for fiowers ; a wish to stroll 
among the roses and carnations, and inhale 
their breath, as if it would revive me. I wish 

1 knew the man who called fiowers “ the 
fugitive poetry of Nature.” From this dis- 
tance, from these scholastic shades, — from this 
leafy, blossoming, and beautiful Cambridge, — 
I stretch forth my hand to grasp his, as the 
hand of a poet ! — Yes ; this morning I 
would rather stroll with him among the gay 
flowers, than sit here and write. I feel so 
weary ! 

Old men with their staves, says the Spanish 
poet, are ever knocking at the door of the 
grave. But I am not old. The Spanish poet 
might have included the young also. — No 


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matter ! Courage, and forward ! The romance 
must be finished, and finished soon. 

O thou poor authorling! Reach a little 
deeper into the human heart! Touch those 
strings, — touch those deeper strings, and 
more boldly, or the notes will die away like 
whispers, and no ear shall hear them, save 
thine own I And, to cheer thy solitary labor, 
remember that the secret studies of an author 
are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the 
bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters 
of Oblivion. They are out of sight ; but 
without them no superstructure can stand 
secure I 

And now. Reader, since the sermon is over, 
and we are still sitting here in this Miserere, 
let us read aloud a page from the old parch- 
ment manuscript on the lettern before us ; let 
us sing it through these dusky aisles, like a 
Gregorian chant, and startle the sleeping con' 
gregation I 

“I have read of the great river Euripus, 
which ebbeth and floweth seven times a day, 
and with such violence that it carrieth ships 
upon it with full sail directly against the 
wind. Seven times in an hour ebbeth and 
floweth rash opinion in the torrent of in- 


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297 

discreet and troublesome apprehensions, car- 
rying critic calumny and squint-eyed detrac- 
tion mainly against the wind of wisdom and 
judgment.” 

In secula seculorum ! Ament 


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CHAPTER II. 

Curfew Bells 

ELCOME, Disappointment ! Thy hand 



» * is cold and hard, but it is the hand of 
a friend ! Thy voice is stern and harsh, but 
it is the voice of a friend ! O, there is some- 
thing sublime in calm endurance, something 
sublime in the resolute, fixed purpose of suf- 
fering without complaining, which makes dis- 
appointment oftentimes better than success ! 

The Emperor Isaac Angelas made a treaty 
with Saladin, and tried to purchase the Holy 
Sepulchre with gold. Richard Lion-heart 
scorned such alliance, and sought to recover it 
by battle. Thus do weak minds make treaties 
with the passions they cannot overcome, and 
try to purchase happiness at the expense of 
principle. But the resolute will of a strong 
man scorns such means, and struggles nobly 
with his foe to achieve great deeds. There- 
fore, whosoever thou art that sufferest, try not 
to dissipate thy sorrow by the breath of the 


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299 


world, nor drown its voice in thoughtless mer- 
riment. It is a treacherous peace that is pur- 
chased by indulgence. Rather take this sor- 
row to thy heart, and make it a part of thee, 
and it shall nourish thee till thou art strong 
again. 

The shadows of the mind are like those of 
the body. In the morning of life, they all lie 
behind us ; at noon, we trample them under 
foot ; and in the evening, they stretch long, 
broad, and deepening before us. Are not, 
then, the sorrows of childhood as dark as those 
of age ? Are not the morning shadows of 
life as deep and broad as those of its evening ? 
Yes ; but morning shadows soon fade away, 
while those of evening reach forward into the 
night, and mingle with the coming darkness. 
Man is begotten in delight and born in pain ; 
and in these are the rapture and labor of his 
life foreshadowed from the beginning. But 
the life of man upon this fair earth is made 
up, for the most part, of little pains and little 
pleasures. The great wonder-flowers bloom 
but once in a lifetime. 

A week had already elapsed since the events 
recorded in the last chapter. Paul Flemming 
went his way, a melancholy man, “drinking 


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the sweet wormwood of his sorrow.” He did 
not rail at Providence and call it fate, but suf- 
fered and was silent. It is a beautiful trait in 
the lover’s character, that he thinks no evil of 
the object loved. What he suffered was no 
swift storm of feeling, that passes away with a 
noise, and leaves the heart clearer ; but a dark 
phantom had risen up in the clear night, and, 
like that of Adamastor, hid the stars ; and if 
it ever vanished away for a season, still the 
deep sound of the moaning main would be 
heard afar, through many a dark and lonely 
hour. And thus he journeyed on, wrapped in 
desponding gloom, and mainly heedless of all 
things around him. His mind was distem- 
pered. That one face was always before him ; 
that one voice was forever saying : — 

“You are not the Magician.” 

Painful indeed it is to be misunderstood ‘ 
and undervalued by those we love. But this, 
too, in our life, must we learn to bear without 
a murmur ; for it is a tale often repeated. 

There are persons in this world to whom all 
local associations are naught. The genius of 
the place speaks not to them. Even on battle- 
fields, where the voice of this genius is loudest, 
they hear only the sound of their own voices ; 


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301 


they meet there only their own dull and pe- 
dantic thoughts, as the old grammarian Bru- 
netto Latini met on the plain of Roncesvalles 
a poor student riding on a bay mule. This 
was not always the case with Paul Flemming, 
but it had become so now. He felt no in- 
terest in the scenery around him. He hardly 
looked at it. Even the difficult mountain- 
passes, where, from his rocky eyrie, the eagle- 
eyed Tyrolese peasant had watched his foe, 
and the roaring, turbid torrent underneath, 
which had swallowed up the bloody corse, that 
fell from the rocks like a crushed worm, awak- 
ened no lively emotion in his breast. All 
around him seemed dreamy and vague ; all 
within dim, as in a sun’s eclipse. As the 
moon, whether visible or invisible, has power 
over the tides of the ocean, so the face of that 
lady, whether present or absent, had power 
ever the tides of his soul ; both by day and 
night, both waking and sleeping. In every 
pale face and dark eye he saw a resemblance 
to her ; and what the day denied him in real- 
ity the night gave him in dreams. 

“This is a strange, fantastic world,” said 
Berkley, after a very long silence, during which 
the two travellers had been sitting each in his 


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corner of the travelling-carriage, wrapped in 
his own reflections. “A very strange, fantastic 
world ; where each one pursues his own golden 
bubble, and laughs at his neighbor for doing 
the same. I have been thinking how a moral 
Linnaeus would classify our race. I think he 
would divide it, — not as Lord Byron did, into 
two great classes, the bores and those who are 
bored, — but into three, namely. Happy Men, 
Lucky Dogs, and Miserable Wretches. This 
is more true and philosophical, though perhaps 
not quite so comprehensive. He is the Happy 
Man, who, blessed with modest ease, a wife 
and children, sits enthroned in the hearts of 
his family, and knows no other ambition than 
that of making those around him happy. But 
the Lucky Dog is he, who, free from all do- 
mestic cares, saunters up and down his room, 
in morning gown and slippers ; drums on the 
window, of a rainy day ; and, as he stirs his 
evening fire, snaps his fingers at the world, 
and says, * I have no wife nor children, good or 
bad, to provide for.’ I had a friend who is now 
no more. He was taken away in the bloom 

of life, by a very rapid widow. He was 

by birth and by profession a beau, — born 
with a quizzing-glass and a cane. Cock of the 


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303 


walk, he flapped his wings, and crowed among 
the feathered tribe. But, alas! a fair, white 
partlet has torn his crest out, and he shall 
crow no more. In the evening he rocks the 
cradle, and gets up in the night when the child 
cries. Like a Goth of the Dark Ages, he 
consults his wife on all mighty matters, and 
looks upon her as a being of more than human 
goodness and wisdom. In short, the women 
all say he is a very domestic man, and makes 
a good husband ; which, under the rose, is 
only a more polite way of saying he is hen- 
pecked. He is a Happy Man. I have an^ 
other dear friend, who is a sexagenary bach- 
elor. He has one of those well-oiled disposi- 
tions which turn upon the hinges of the world 
without creaking. The heyday of life is over 
with him ; but his old age is sunny and chirp- 
ing ; and a merry heart still nestles in his 
tottering frame, like a swallow that builds in 
a tumble-down chimney. He is a professed 
Squire of Dames. The rustle of a silk gown 
is music to his ears, and his imagination is 
continually lantern-led by some will-with-a- 
wisp in the shape of a lady’s stomacher. In 
his devotion to the fair sex — the muslin, as 
he calls it — he is the gentle flower of chiv^ 


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airy. It is amusing to see how quick he 
strikes into the scent of a lady’s handkerchief. 
When once fairly in pursuit, there is no such 
thing as throwing him off. His heart looks 
©ut at his eye ; and his inward delight tingles 
down to the tail of his coat. He loves to bask 
in the sunshine of a smile ; when he can 
breathe the sweet atmosphere of kid gloves 
and cambric handkerchiefs, his soul is in its 
element ; and his supreme delight is to pass 
the morning, to use his own quaint language, 
in making dodging calls, and wriggling round 
among the ladies ! He is a Lucky Dog.” 

And as a specimen of the class of Misera- 
ble Wretches, I suppose you will take me,” 
said Flemming, making an effort to enter into 
his friend’s humor. “ Certainly I am wretched 
enough. You may make me the stuffed bear, 
— the specimen of this class.” 

“ By no means,” replied Berkley ; you are 
not reduced so low. He only is utterly 
wretched, who is the slave of his own pas- 
sions, or those of others. This, I trust, will 
never be your condition. Why so wan and 
pale, fond lover ^ Do you remember Sir John 
Suckling’s song } 


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305 


® Why so wan and pale, fond lover ? 

Pr’ythee why so pale ? 

Will, if looking well can’t move her. 

Looking ill prevail ? 

Pr’ythee why so pale ? 

* Why so dull and mute, young sinner ? 

Pr’ythee why so mute ? 

Will, if speaking well can’t win her, 

Saying nothing do ’t ? 

Pr’ythee why so mute ? 

* Quit, quit, for shame ! this cannot move 

This cannot take her ! 

If of herself she do not love, 

Nothing -will make her ! 

The devil take her ! ’ 

How do you like that ? ” 

“To you I say quit, quit for shame ! replied 
Flemming. “ Why quote the songs of that 
witty and licentious age ? Have you no better 
consolation to offer me ? How many, many 
times must I tell you, that I bear the lady no 
ill-will ? I do not blame her for not loving 
me. I desire her happiness, even at the sacri- 
fice of my own.” 

“That is generous in you, and deserves a 
better fate. But you are so figurative in all 
you say, that a stranger would think you had 
no real feeling, and only fancied yourself in 
love?” T 


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Hyperion 


“ Expression of feeling is different with dif- 
ferent minds. It is not always simple. Some 
minds, when excited, naturally speak in figures 
and similitudes. They do not on that account 
feel less deeply. This is obvious in our most 
common modes of speech. It depends upon 
the individual.” 

“ Kyrie Eleyson ! ” 

“ Well, abuse my figures of speech as much 
as you please. What I insist upon is, that you 
shall not abuse the lady. When did you ever 
hear me breathe a whisper against her } ” 

“Oho ! Now you speak like Launce to his 
dog!” 

Their conversation, which had begun so 
merrily, was here suddenly interrupted by a 
rattling peal of thunder, that announced a 
near-approaching storm. It was late in the 
afternoon, and the whole heaven black with 
low, trailing clouds. Still blacker the storm 
came sailing up majestically from the south- 
west, with almost unbroken volleys of distant 
thunder. The wind seemed to be storming 
a cloud-redoubt ; and marched onward with 
dust, and the green banners of the trees flap- 
ping in the air, and heavy cannonading, and 
occasionally an explosion, like the blowing up 


A Romance 


307 


of a powder-wagon. Mingled with this was 
the sound of thunder-bells from a village not 
far off. They were all ringing dolefully to 
ward off the thunderbolt. At the entrance 
of the village stood a large wooden crucifix, 
around which was a crowd of priests and 
peasants, kneeling in the wet grass, by the 
roadside, with their hands and eyes lifted to 
heaven, and praying for rain. Their prayer 
was soon answered. 

The travellers drove on with the driving 
wind and rain. They had come from Landv 
eck, and hoped to reach Innsbruck before 
midnight. Night closed in, and Flemming fell 
asleep with the loud storm overhead, and at 
his feet the roaring Inn, a mountain torrent 
leaping onward as wild and restless as when 
it first sprang from its cradle in the solitudes 
of Engaddin ; meet emblem of himself, thus 
rushing through the night. His slumber was 
long, but broken ; and at length he awoke m 
terror ; for he heard a voice pronounce in his 
ear distinctly these words : — 

“ They have brought the dead body.” 

They were driving by a churchyard at the 
entrance of a town ; and among the tombs a 
dim lamp was burning before an image of the 


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Hyperion 


Virgin. It had a most unearthly appearance. 
Flemming almost feared to see the congrega- 
tion of the dead go into the church and sing 
their midnight mass. He spoke to Berkley 
but received no answer ; he was in a deep 
sleep. 

Then it was only a dream,” said he to him- 
self ; “ yet how distinct the voice was ! O, if 
we had spiritual organs, to see and hear things 
now invisible and inaudible to us, we should 
behold the whole air filled with the departing 
souls of that vast multitude which every mo- 
ment dies, — should behold them streaming 
up like thin vapors heavenward, and hear the 
startling blast of the archangel’s trump sound- 
ing incessant through the universe, and pro- 
claiming the awful judgment-day ! Truly, the 
soul departs not alone on its last Journey, but 
spirits of its kind attend it, when not minis- 
tering angels ; and they go in families to the 
unknown land ! Neither in life nor in death 
are we alone.” 

He slept again at intervals ; and at length, 
though long after midnight, reached Innsbruck 
between sleeping and waking ; his mind filled 
with dim recollections of the unspeakably dis- 
mal night journey; — the climbing of hills, 


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309 


and plunging into dark ravines ; the momen- 
tary rattling of the wheels over paved streets 
of towns, and the succeeding hollow rolling 
and tramping on the wet earth ; the blackness 
of the night ; the thunder and lightning and 
rain ; the roar of waters, leaping through deep 
chasms by the roadside ; and the wind through 
the mountain-passes, sounding loud and long, 
like the inextinguishable laughter of the gods. 

The travellers on the morrow lingered not 
long in Innsbruck. They did not fail, how- 
ever, to visit the tomb of Maximilian in the 
Franciscan Church of the Holy Cross, and 
gaze with some admiration upon the twenty- 
eight gigantic bronze statues of Godfrey of 
Bouillon, and King Arthur, and Ernest the 
Iron-man, and Frederick of the Empty Pock- 
ets, kings and heroes, and others, which stand 
leaning on their swords between the columns 
of the church, as if guarding the tomb of the 
dead. These statues reminded Flemming of 
the bronze giants which strike the hours on 
the belfry of San Basso, in Venice, and of the 
flail-armed monsters that guarded the gate- 
way of Angulafler s castle in Oberon. After 
gazing awhile at these motionless sentinels, 
they went forth, and strolled through the pub- 


310 


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lie gardens, with the jagged mountains right 
over their heads, and all around them tall, 
melancholy pines, like Tyrolese peasants, with 
shaggy hair ; and at their feet the mad tor- 
rent of the Inn, sweeping with turbid waves 
through the midst of the town. In the after- 
noon, they drove on towards Salzburg, through 
the magnificent mountain-passes of Waidering 
and Unken. 


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31^ 


CHAPTER III. 

Shadows on the Wall 

the following morning, Flemming 
awoke in a chamber of the Golden Ship 
at Salzburg, just as the clock in the cathedral 
opposite was striking ten. The window-shut- 
ters were closed, and the room was nearly 
dark. He was lying with his hands crossed 
upon his breast, and his eyes looking up at 
the white curtains overhead. He thought 
them the white marble canopy of a tomb, 
and himself the marble statue lying beneath. 
When the clock ceased striking, the eight- 
and-twenty gigantic bronze statues from the 
Church of Holy Rood in Innsbruck stalked 
into the chamber, and arranged themselves 
along the walls, which spread into dimly 
lighted aisles and arches. On the painted 
windows he saw Interlachea with its Fran- 
ciscan cloister, and the Square Tower of the 
ruins. In a pendant, overnead, stood the 
German mechanic, as Saint Vitus ; and on a 


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lavatory, below, sat a cherub, with the form 
and features of Berkley. Then the organ- 
pipes began to blow, and he heard the voices 
of an invisible choir chanting. And anon the 
gilded gates in the bronze screen before the 
chancel opened, and a bridal procession passed 
through. The bride was clothed in the garb 
of the Middle Ages ; and held a book in her 
hand, with velvet covers, and golden clasps. 
It was Mary Ashburton. She looked at him 
as she passed. Her face was pale, and there 
were tears in her sweet eyes. Then the gates 
closed again ; and one of the oaken poppy- 
heads over a carved stall, in the shape of 
an owl, flapped its broad wings, and hooted, 
“To-whit! to-who!” Then the whole scene 
changed ; and he thought himself a monk’s- 
head on a gutter-spout ; and it rained dis- 
mally ; and Berkley was standing underneath 
with an umbrella, laughing ! 

In other words, Flemming was in a raging 
fever, and delirious. He remained in this state 
for a week. The first thing he was conscious 
of was hearing the doctor say to Berkley : — 

“ The crisis is passed. I now consider him 
out ©f danger.” 

He then fell into a sweet sleep ; the wild 


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313 


lever had swept away like an angry, red cloud, 
and the refreshing summer rain began to 
fall like dew upon the parched earth. Still 
another week, and Flemming was “ sitting 
clothed, and in his right mind.” Berkley had 
been reading to him ; and still held the book 
in his hand, with his fore-finger between the 
leaves. It was a volume of Hoffmann’s writ- 
ings. 

‘‘ How very strange it is,” said he, “ that 
you can hardly open the biography of any Ger- 
man author, but you will find it begin with an 
account of his grandfather! It will tell you 
how the venerable old man walked up and 
down the garden among the gay flowers, 
wrapped in his morning gown, which is like- 
wise covered with flowers, and perhaps wear- 
ing on his head a little velvet cap. Or you 
will find him sitting by the chimney-corner in 
the great chair, smoking his ancestral pipe, 
with shaggy eyebrows, and eyes like bird’s-nests 
under the eaves of a house, and a mouth like 
a Nuremberg nutcracker’s. The future poet 
climbs upon the old man’s knees. His genius 
is not recognized yet. He is thought for the 
most part a dull boy. His father is an austere 
man, or perhaps dead. But the mother is still 
14 


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314 

there, a sickly, saint-like woman, with knit-* 
ting-work ; and an elder sister, who has al- 
ready been in love, and wears rings on her 
fingers : — 

‘ Death’s heads, and such mementoes, 

Her grandmother and worm-eaten aunts left to her, 

To tell her what her beauty must arrive at’” 

“But this is not the case with the life of 
Hoffmann, if I recollect right.” 

“No, not precisely. Instead of the grand- 
father, we have the grandmother, a stately 
dame, who has long since shaken hands with 
the vanities of life. The mother, separated 
from her husband, is sick in mind and body, 
and flits to and fro like a shadow. Then there 
is an affectionate maiden aunt ; and an un- 
cle, a retired judge, the terror of little boys, 
— the Giant Despair of this Doubting Cas- 
tle in Konigsberg ; and occasionally the be- 
nign countenance of a venerable grand-uncle, 
whom Lamotte Fouque called a hero of the 
olden time in morning gown and slippers, 
looks in at the door and smiles. In the upper 
story of the same house lived a poor boy with 
his mother, who was so far crazed as to believe 
herself to be the Virgin Mary, and her son 
the Saviour of the world. Wild fancies, iike» 


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wise, were to sweep through the brain of that 
child. He was to meet Hoifmann elsewhere 
and be his friend in after years, though as yet 
they knew nothing of each other. This was 
Werner, who has made some noise in German 
literature as the author of many wild Destiny- 
Dramas.” 

“ Hoffmann died, I believe, in Berlin.” 

“Yes. He left Konigsberg at twenty years 
of age, and passed the next eight years of his 
life in the Prussian-Polish provinces, where he 
held some petty office under government, and 
took to himself many bad habits and a Polish 
wife. After this he was Music-Director at 
various German theatres, and led a wandering, 
wretched life for ten years. He then went to 
Berlin as Clerk of the Exchange, and there 
remained till his death, which took place some 
seven or eight years afterward.” - 

“ Did you ever see him } ” 

“I was in Berlin during his lifetime, and 
saw him frequently. I shall never forget the 
first time. It was at one of the Esthetic 
Teas given by a literary lady unUr den Linden^ 
where the lions were fed with convenient food, 
from tea and bread and butter up to oysters 
and Rhine-wine. During the evening, my 


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attention was arrested by the entrance of a 
strange little figure, with a wild head of brown 
hair. His eyes were bright gray ; and his thin 
lips closely pressed together with an expres- 
sion of not unpleasing irony. This strange- 
looking personage began to bow his way 
through the crowd, with quick, nervous, hinge- 
like motions, much resembling those of a 
marionnette. He had a hoarse voice, and 
such a rapid utterance, that, although I under- 
stand German well enough for ordinary pur- 
poses, I could not make out one half he said. 
Erelong he had seated himself at the piano- 
forte, and was improvising such wild, sweet 
fancies, that the music of one’s dreams is not 
more sweet and wild. Then suddenly some 
painful thought seemed to pass over his mind, 
as if he imagined that he was there to amuse 
the company. He rose from the piano-forte, 
and seated himself in another part of the 
room ; where he began to make grimaces, and 
talk loud while others were singing. Finally 
he disappeared like a hobgoblin, laughing, ‘ Ho ! 
ho ! ho ! ’ I asked a person beside me who this 
strange being was. ‘ That is Hoffmann,’ was 
the answer. ‘The Devil!’ said I. ‘Yes,’ con- 
tinued my informant, ‘and if you should fol- 


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low him now, you would see him plunge into 
an obscure and unfrequented wine-cellar, and 
there, amid boon companions, with wine and 
tobacco-smoke, and quirks and quibbles, and 
quaint, witty sayings, turn the dim night into 
glorious day.’ ” 

“ What a strange being ! ” 

“I once saw him at one of his night- 
carouses. He was sitting in his glory, at the 
head of the table ; not stupidly drunk, but 
warmed with wine, which made him madly 
eloquent, as the Devil’s Elixir did the monk 
Medardus. There, in the full tide of witty 
discourse, or, if silent, his gray hawk-eye flash- 
ing from beneath his matted hair, and taking 
note of all that was grotesque in the company 
round him, sat this unfortunate genius, till the 
day began to dawn. Then he found his way ^ 
homeward, having, like the souls of the envi- 
ous in Purgatory, his eyelids sewed together 
with iron wire ; — though his was from cham- 
pagne bottles. At such hours he wrote his 
wild, fantastic tales. To his excited fancy 
everything assumed a spectral look. The 
shadows of familiar things about him stalked 
like ghosts through the haunted chambers of 
his soul ; and the old portraits on the wails 


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318 

winked at him, and seemed stepping down 
from their frames ; till, aghast at the spectral 
throng about him, he would call his wife from 
her bed, to sit by him while he wrote.” 

No wonder he died in the prime of life ! ” 

*‘No. The only wonder is, that he could 
have followed this course of life for six years. 
I am astonished that it did not kill him sooner.” 

“But death came at last in an appalling 
shape.” 

“ Yes ; his forty-sixth birthday found him 
sitting at home in his arm-chair, with his 
friends around him. But the rare old wine — 
he always drank the best — touched not the 
sick man’s lips that night. His wonted humor 
was gone. Of all his ‘jibes, his gambols, his 
songs, his flashes of merriment, that were 
wont to set the table on a roar, not one now, 
to mock his own grinning ! — quite chap- 
fallen.’ The conversation was of death and 
the grave. And when one of his friends said 
*iiat life was not the highest good, Hoffmann 
interrupted him, exclaiming, with a startling 
earnestness, ‘No, no! Life, life, only life! on 
any condition whatsoever !’ Five months after 
this he had ceased to suffer, because he had 
ceased to live. He died piecemeal. His feet 


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and hands, his legs and arms, gradually, and 
in succession, became motionless, dead. But 
his spirit was not dead, nor motionless ; and, 
through the solitary day or sleepless night, 
lying in his bed, he dictated to an amanuensis 
his last stories. Strange stories, indeed, were 
they for a dying man to write ! Yet such de- 
light did he take in dictating them, that he 
said to his friend Hitzig, that, upon the whole, 
he was willing to give up forever the use of 
his hands, if he could but preserve the power 
of writing by dictation. Such was his love 
of life, — of what he called the sweet habitude 
of being ! ” 

Was it not he, who in his last hours ex- 
pressed such a longing to behold the green 
fields once more, and exclaimed, ‘ Heaven ! it 
is already summer, and I have not yet seen a 
single green tree ’ ? ” 

“ Yes, that was Hoffmann. Soon afterwards 
he died. The closing scene was striking. He 
gradually lost all sensation, though his mind 
remained vigorous. Feeling no more pain, he 
said to his physician : ‘ It will soon be over 
now. I feel no more pain.’ He thought him- 
self well again ; but the physician knew that 
he was dying, and said, ‘Yes, it will soon be 


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over ! ’ The next morning he called his wife to 
his bedside, and begged her to fold his motion- 
less hands together. Then, as he raised his 
eyes to heaven, she heard him say, ^ We must, 
then, think of God, also ! ’ More sorrowful 
words than these have seldom fallen from the 
lips of man. Shortly afterwards the flame of 
life glared up within him ; h^^ said he was well 
again ; that in the evening he should go on 
with the story he was writing ; and wished 
that the last sentence might be read over to 
him. Shortly after this they turned his face 
to the wall, and he died.” 

“ And thus passed to its account a human 
soul, after much self-inflicted suffering. Let 
us tread lightly upon the poet’s ashes. For 
my part, I confess that I have not the heart to 
take him from the general crowd of erring, 
sinful men, and judge him harshly. The little 
I have seen of the world, and know of the 
history of mankind, teaches me to look upon 
the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger. 
When I take the history of one poor heart 
that has sinned and suffered, and represent t© 
myself the struggles and temptations it has 
passed, — the brief pulsations of joy, the fe- 
verish inquietude of hope and fear, the tears 


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of regret, the feebleness of purpose, the 
pressure of want, the desertion of friends, the 
scorn of a world that has little charity, the 
desolation of the soul’s sanctuary, and threat- 
ening voices within, — health gone, happiness 
gone, even hope, that stays longest with us, 
gone, — I have little heart for aught else than 
thankfulness that it is not so with me, and 
would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow- 
man with Him from whose hands it came, 

‘ Even as a little girl, 

Weeping and laughing in her childish sport’ ” 

“ You are right. And it is worth a student’s 
while to observe calmly how tobacco, wine, 
and midnight did their work like fiends upon 
the delicate frame of Hoffmann ; and no less 
thoroughly upon his delicate mind. He who 
drinks beer thinks beer ; and he who drinks 
wine thinks wine ; and he who drinks mid- 
night thinks midnight. He was a man of rare 
intellect. He was endowed with racy humor, 
and sarcastic wit, and a glorious imagination. 
But the fire of his genius burned not peace- 
fully and with a steady flame upon the hearth 
of his home. It was a glaring and irregular 
flame ; for the branches that he fed it with 


14 


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were not branches from the Tree of Life, 
but from another tree that grew in Paradise, 
and they were wet with the unhealthy dews 
of night, and more unhealthy wine ; and thus, 
amid smoke and ashes, the fire burned fitfully, 
and went out with a glare which leaves the 
beholder blind.” 

This fire within him was a Meleager’s fire- 
brand ; and when it burned out, he died. 
And, as you say, marks of all this are clearly 
visible in Hoffmann’s writings. Indeed, when 
I read his strange fancies, it is with me as 
when in the summer night I hear the rising 
wind among the trees, and the branches bow, 
and beckon with their long fingers, and voices 
go gibbering and mocking through the air. 
A feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes 
over me. I wish to hear the sound of living 
voice or footstep near me, — to see a friendly 
and familiar face. In truth, if it be late at 
night, the reader as well as the writer of these 
unearthly fancies would fain have a patient, 
meek-eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his 
elbow.” 

Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued 
without noticing the smile, though he knew 
what was passing in the mind of his friend : — 


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323 


“ The life and writings of this singular being 
interest me in a high degree. Sometimes we 
may learn more from a man’s errors than from 
his virtues. Moreover, from the common sym- 
pathies of our nature, souls that have strug- 
gled and suffered are dear to me. Willingly 
do I recognize their brotherhood. Scars upon 
their foreheads do not so deform them that 
they cease to interest. They are always signs 
of struggle ; though, alas ! too often, likewise, 
of defeat. Seasons of unhealthy, dreamy, vague 
delight are followed by seasons of weariness 
and darkness. Where are then the bright 
fancies, that, amid the great stillness of the 
night, arise like stars in the firmament of our 
souls } The morning dawns, the light of com- 
mon day shines in upon us, and the heavens 
are without a star ! From the lives of such 
men we learn that mere pleasant sensations 
are not happiness ; that sensual pleasures are 
to be drunk sparingly, and, as it were, from 
the palm of the hand ; and that those who 
bow down upon their knees to drink of these 
bright streams that water life are not chosen 
of God either to overthrow or overcome ! ” 

“ I think you are very lenient in your judg- 
ment. This is not the usual defect of critics. 


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Like Shakespeare’s samphire-gatherer, they 
have a dreadful trade ! and, to make the sim- 
ile complete, they ought to hang for it ! ” 

“ Methinks it would be hard to hang a man 
for the sake of a simile. But now go on with 
the Phantasy-Pieces in Callot’s manner.” 

“ By the way, who was this Callot } ” 

“He was a Lorraine painter, of the seven- 
teenth century, celebrated for his wild and 
grotesque conceptions. These sketches of 
Hoffmann are imitations of his style.” 

“And which of them shall I read to you 
next The Ritter Gliick ; or the Musical Suf- 
ferings of J ohn Kreisler ; or that exquisite 
story of the Golden Jar, wherein is depicted 
the life of Poesy in this commonplace world 
of ours } ” 

“ Read the shortest. Read Kreisler. That 
will amuse me. It is a picture of his own suf- 
ferings at the ^Esthetic Teas in Berlin, sup- 
posed to be written in pencil on the blank 
leaves of a music-book.” 

Thereupon Berkley leaned back in his casy- 
chair, and read as follows. 


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325 


CHAPTER IV. 


Musical Sufferings of John Kreisler 



HEY are all gone ! I might have known 


^ it by the whispering, shuffling, cough- 
ing, humming through all the notes of the 
gamut. It was a true swarm of bees, leaving 
the old hive. Gottlieb has lighted fresh can- 
dles for me, and placed a bottle of Burgundy 
on the piano-forte. I can play no more, I am 
perfectly exhausted. My glorious old friend 
here on the music-stand is to blame for that. 
Again he has borne me away through the air, 
as Mephistopheles did Faust, and so high, that 
I took not the slightest notice of the little men 
under me, though I dare say they made noise 
enough. A rascally, worthless, wasted even- 
ing ! But now I am well and merry ! How- 
ever, while I was playing, I took out my pen- 
cil, and on page, sixty-three, under the last 
staff, noted down a couple of good flourishes in 
cipher with my right hand, while the left was 
struggling away in the torrent of sweet sounds. 


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Upon the blank page at the end I go on writ- 
ing. I leave all ciphers and sweet sounds, and 
with true delight, like a sick man restored to 
health, who can never stop relating what he 
has suffered, I note down here circumstantially 
the dire agonies of this evening’s tea-party. 
And not for myself alone, but likewise for all 
those who from time to time may amuse and 
edify themselves with my copy of John Sebas- 
tian Bach’s Variations for the Piano-forte, pub- 
lished by Nageli in Zurich, and who find my 
marks at the end of the thirtieth variation, 
and, led on by the great Latin Verte, (I will 
write it down the moment I get through this 
doleful statement of grievances,) turn over the 
leaf and read. 

“ They will at once see the connection. 
They know that the Geheimerath Rodelein’s 
house is a charming house to visit in, and that 
he has two daughters, of whom the whole 
fashionable world proclaims with enthusiasm 
that they dance like goddesses, speak French 
like angels, and play and sing and draw like 
the Muses. The Geheimerath Rodelein is a 
rich man. At his quarterly dinners he sends 
up the most delicious wines and richest dishes. 
All is established on a footing of the greatest 


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327 


elegance ; and whoever at his tea-parties does 
not amuse himself heavenly, has no ton^ no 
esprit, and particularly no taste for the fine 
arts. It is with an eye to these, that, with the 
tea, punch, wine, ices, etc., a little music is 
always served up, which, like the other refresh- 
ments, is very quietly swallowed by the fash 
ionable world. 

“The arrangements are as follows. After 
every guest has had time enough to drink as 
many cups of tea as he may wish, and punch 
and ices have been handed round twice, the 
servants wheel out the card-tables for the elder 
and more solid part of the company, who had 
rather play cards than any musical instrument ; 
and, in fact, this kind of playing does not make 
such a useless noise as the other, and you hear 
only the clink of money. 

“ This is a hint for the younger part of the 
company to pounce upon the Misses Rodelein. 
A great tumult ensues ; in the midst of which 
you can distinguish these words : — 

^^^Schdnes Frdulein ! do not refuse us the 
gratification of your heavenly talent ! O, sing 
something ! that ’s a good dear ! — impossible, 
— bad cold, — the last ball ! have not practised 
anything. — O, do, do, we beg of you,’ etc. 


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“ Meanwhile Gottlieb has opened the piano- 
forte, and placed the well-known music-book 
on the stand ; and from the card-table cries 
the respectable mamma, — 

“ ^ Chmitez doncy mes enfants ! ’ 

“ That is the cue of my part. I place myself 
at the piano-forte, and the Rodeleins are led 
up to the instrument in triumph. 

“ And now another difficulty arises. Neither 
wishes to sing first, 

“‘You know, dear Nanette, how dreadfully 
hoarse I am.’ 

“ ‘ Why, my dear Marie, I am as hoarse as 
you are.’ 

“ ‘ I sing so badly ! — ’ 

“ ‘ O my dear child ; do begin ! ’ 

“ My suggestion, (I always make the same !) 
that they should both begin together with a 
duet, is loudly applauded ; — the music-book 
is thumbed over, and the leaf, carefully folded 
down, is at length found, and away we go with 
Dolce deir animay etc. 

“To tell the truth, the talent of the Misses 
Rodelein is not the smallest. I have been an 
instructor here only five years, and little short 
of two years in the Rodelein family. In this 
short time, Fraulein Nanette has made such 


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progress, that a tune, which she has heard at 
the theatre only ten times, and has played on 
the piano-forte, at farthest, ten times more, she 
will sing right off, so that you know in a mo- 
ment what it is. Fraulein Marie catches it 
at the eighth time ; and if she is sometimes a 
quarter of a note lower than the piano-forte, 
after all it is very tolerable, considering her 
pretty little doll-face, and very passable rosy 
lips. 

“ After the duet, a universal chorus of ap- 
plause ! And now ariettas and duettinos suc- 
ceed each other, and right merrily I hammer 
away at the thousand-times-repeated accom- 
paniments. During the singing, the Finanz- 
rathin Eberstein, by coughing and humming, 
has given us to understand that she also sings. 
Fraulein Nanette says : — 

‘ But, my dear Finanzrathin, now you must 
let us hear your exquisite voice.' 

“ A new tumult arises. She has a bad cold 
in her head, — she does not know anything 
by heart ! Gottlieb brings straightway two 
armfuls of music-books ; and the leaves are 
turned over again and again. First she thinks 
she will sing Der Holle Rachcy etc., then Hebe 
fick, etc., then Ack, Ich hebtey etc. In this 


330 


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embarrassment, I propose, Ein Veilckm auf def 
Wiese, etc. But she is for the heroic style ; 
she wants to make a display, and finally selects 
Constanze. 

“ O, scream, squeak, mew, gurgle, groan, 
agonize, quiver, quaver, just as much as you 
please, Madam, I have my foot on the fortis- 
simo pedal, and thunder myself deaf! O Satan, 
Satan I which of thy goblins damned has got 
into this throat, pinching, and kicking, and 
cuffing the tones about so I Four strings have 
snapped already, and one hammer is lamed for 
life. My ears ring again, — my head hums, — 
my nerves tremble 1 Have all the harsh notes 
from the cracked trumpet of a mountebank 
been imprisoned in this little throat ! (But 
this excites me, — I must drink a glass of Bur- 
gundy.) 

“ The applause was unbounded ; and some 
one observed, that the Finanzrathin and Mozart 
had put me quite into a blaze. I smiled with 
downcast eyes, very stupidly. I could but 
acknowledge it. And now all talents, which 
hitherto had bloomed unseen, were in motion, 
wildly flitting to and fro. They were bent 
upon a surfeit of music ; tuttis, finales, choruses, 
must be performed. The Canonicus Kratzer 


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331 


sings, you know, a heavenly bass, as was ob- 
served by the gentleman yonder, with the 
head of Titus Andronicus, who modestly re- 
marked also, that he himself was properly only 
a second-rate tenor; but, though he said 
it who should not say it, he was neverthe- 
less member of several academies of music. 
Forthwith preparations are made for the first 
chorus in the opera of Titus. It went olf 
gloriously. The Canonicus, standing close 
behind me, thundered out the bass over my 
head, as if he were singing with bass-drums 
and trumpet obligato in a cathedral. He 
struck the notes gloriously ; but in his hurry 
he got the tempo about twice too slow. How- 
ever, he was true to himself at least in this, 
that through the whole piece he dragged along 
just half a beat behind the rest. The others 
showed a most decided penchant for the an- 
cient Greek music, which, as is well known, 
having nothing to do with harmony, ran on in 
unison or monotone. They all sang treble, 
with slight variations, caused by accidental 
rising or falling of the voice, say some quarter 
of a note. 

This somewhat noisy affair produced a 
universal tragic state of feeling, namely a kind 


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of terror, even at the card-tables, which for 
the moment could no longer, as before, chime 
in melodramatically, by weaving into the music 
sundry exclamations ; as, for instance : — 

“ ‘ O ! I loved, — eight and forty, — was 
so happy, — I pass, — then I knew not, — 
whist, — pangs of love, — follow suit,’ etc. 
— It has a very pretty effect. (I fill my 
glass.) 

“That was the highest point of the musi- 
cal exhibition this evening. ‘Now it is all 
over,’ thought I to myself I shut the book, 
and got up from the piano-forte. But the 
Baron, my ancient tenor, came up to me and 
said : — 

“ ‘ My dear Herr Capellmeister, they say 
you play the most exquisite voluntaries ! Now 
do play us one ; only a short one, I entreat 
you !’ 

“ I answered very dryly, that to-day my fan- 
tasies had all gone a wool-gathering ; and 
while we are talking about it, a devil, in the 
shape of a dandy, with two waistcoats, had 
smelt out Bach’s Variations, which were lying 
under my hat in the next room. He thinks 
they are merely little variations, such as Nel 
for mio non pin sento, or Ak, vous dirai-je^ 


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333 


maman, etc., and insists upon it that I shall 
play them. I try to excuse myself, but they 
all attack me. So then, * Listen, and burst 
with ennui,’ think I to myself, — and begin to 
work away. 

“ When I had got to variation number three, 
several ladies departed, followed by the gen- 
tleman with the Titus-Andronicus head. The 
Rodeleins, as their teacher was playing, stood 
it out, though not without difficulty, to number 
twelve. Number fifteen made the man with 
two waistcoats take to his heels. Out of most 
excessive politeness, the Baron stayed till num- 
ber thirty, and drank up all the punch which 
Gottlieb placed on the piano-forte for me. 

“ I should have brought all to a happy con- 
clusion, but, alas ! this number thirty — the 
theme — tore me irresistibly away. Suddenly 
the quarto leaves spread out to a gigantic folio, 
on which a thousand imitations and develop- 
ments of the theme stood written, and I could 
not choose but play them. The notes became 
alive, and glimmered and hopped all round 
about me, — an electric fire streamed through 
the tips of my fingers into the keys, — the 
spirit from which it gushed forth spread his 
broad wings over my soul, the whole room was 


334 


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filled with a thick mist, in which the candles 
burned dim, — and through which peered forth 
now a nose, and anon a pair of eyes, and then 
suddenly vanished away again. And thus it 
came to pass, that I was left alone with my 
Sebastian Bach, by Gottlieb attended, as by a 
familiar spirit. (Your good health. Sir.) 

“ Is an honest musician to be tormented with 
music, as I have been to-day, and am so often 
tormented ? Verily, no art is so damnably 
abused as this same glorious, holy Musica, 
who, in her delicate being, is so easily dese- 
crated. Have you real talent, — real feeling 
for art } Then study music, — do something 
worthy of the art, — and dedicate your whole 
soul to the beloved saint. If without this you 
have a fancy for quavers and demi-semi-qua- 
vers, practise for yourself and by yourself, and 
torment not therewith the Capellmeister Kreis- 
ler and others. 

“ Well, now I might go home, and put the 
finishing touch to my sonata for the piano- 
forte ; but it is not yet eleven o’clock, and, with- 
al, a beautiful summer night. I will lay any 
wager, that at my neighbor’s, the Oberjager- 
meister, the young ladies are sitting at the win- 
dow, screaming down into the street, for the 


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335 


twentieth time, with harsh, sharp, piercing 
voices, ‘ When thine eye is beaming, love,’ ^ 
but only the first stanza, over and over again. 
Obliquely across the way, some one is murder- 
ing the flute, and has, moreover, lungs like Ra- 
meau’s nephew; and, in notes of ‘linked sweet- 
ness long drawn out,’ his neighbor is trying 
acoustic experiments on the French horn. 
The numerous dogs of the neighborhood are 
growing unquiet, and my landlord’s cat, inspired 
by that sweet duet, is making, by my window, 
(for, of course, my musico-poetic laboratory is 
an attic,) certain tender confessions, — upward 
through the whole chromatic scale, soft com- 
plaining, to the neighbor’s tabby, with whom 
he has been in love since March last ! Till 
this is all fairly over, I think I will sit quietly 
here. Besides, there is still blank paper and 
Burgundy left, of which I forthwith take a 
sip. 

“ There is, as I have heard, an ancient law, 
forbidding those who follow any noisy handi- 
craft from living near literary men. Should 
not then musical composers, poor, and hard 
beset, and who, moreover, are forced to coin 
their inspiration into gold to spin out the 
thread of life withal, be allowed to apply this 


336 


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law to themselves, and banish out of the neigh- 
borhood all ballad-singers and bagpipers ? 
What would a painter say, while transferring 
to his canvas a form of ideal beauty, if you 
should hold up before him all manner of wild 
faces and ugly masks? He might shut his 
eyes, and in this way, at least, quietly follow 
out the images of fancy. Cotton, in one’s ears, 
is of no use ; one still hears the dreadful mas- 
sacre. And then the idea, — the bare idea, 
‘ Now they are going to sing, — now the horn 
strikes up,’ — is enough to send one’s sublimest 
thoughts to the very Devil.” 


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33 ? 


CHAPTER V. 

Saint Gilgen 

I T was a bright Sunday morning wlien 
Flemming and Berkley left behind them 
the cloud-capped hills of Salzburg, and jour- 
neyed eastward towards the lakes. The land- 
scape around them was one to attune their 
souls to hoV musings. Field, forest, hill and 
vale, fresh air, and the perfume of clover-fields 
and new-mown hay, birds singing, and the 
sound of village bells, and the moving breeze 
among the branches, — no laborers in the 
fields, but peasants on their way to church, 
coming across the green pastures, with roses 
in their hats, — the beauty and quiet of the 
holy day of rest, — all, all in earth and air 
breathed upon the soul like a benediction. 

They stopped to change horses at Hof, a 
handful of houses on the brow of a breezy 
hill, the church and inn standing opposite to 
each other, and nothing between them but the 
dusty road, and the churchyard, with its iron 

«5 V 


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crosses, and the fluttering tinsel of the funeral 
garlands. In the churchyard, and at the inn- 
door, were groups of peasants, waiting for 
divine service to begin. They were clothed 
in their holiday dresses. The men wore 
breeches and long boots, and frock-coats with 
large metal buttons; the women, straw hats, 
and gay calico gowns with short waists and 
scant folds. They were adorned with a pro- 
fusion of great trumpery ornaments, and re- 
minded Flemming of the Indians in the fron- 
tier villages of America. Near the church- 
yard-gate was a booth, filled with flaunting 
calicoes ; and opposite sat an old woman 
behind a table, which was loaded with ginger- 
bread. She had a roulette at her elbow, 
where the peasants risked a kreutzer for a 
cake. On other tables, cases of knives, 
scythes, reaping-hooks, and other implements 
of husbandry were offered for sale. 

The travellers continued their journey, with- 
out stopping to hear mass. In the course of 
the forenoon, they came suddenly in sight of 
the beautiful lake of Saint Wolfgang, lying 
deep beneath them in the valley. On its 
shore, under them, sat the white village of 
Saint Gilgen, like a swan upon its ready nest 


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They seemed to have taken it unawares, and 
as it were clapped their hands upon it in its 
sleep, and almost expected to see it spread its 
broad snow-white wings and fly away. The 
whole scene was one of surpassing beauty. 

They drove leisurely down the steep hill, 
and stopped at the village inn. Before the 
door was a magnificent broad-armed tree, with 
benches and tables beneath its shadow. On 
the front of the house was written in large 
letters, “Post-Tavern by Franz Schondorfer ” ; 
and over this was a large sun-dial, and a half- 
effaced painting of a bear-hunt, covering the 
whole side of the house, and mostly red. As 
they drove up, a procession of priests with 
' banners, and peasants with their hats in their 
hands, passed by towards the church. They 
were singing a solemn psalm. At the same 
moment, a smart servant-girl, with a black 
straw hat set coquettishly on her flaxen hair, 
and a large silver spoon in her girdle, came 
out of the inn, and asked Flemming what he 
would please to order for breakfast. 

Breakfast was soon ready, and was served at 
the head of the stairs, on an old-fashioned 
oaken table in the great hall, into which the 
chambers opened Berkley ordered at the 


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same time a tub of cold water, in which he 
seated himself, with his coat on, and a bed- 
quilt thrown round his knees. Thus he sat 
for an hour ; ate his breakfast, and smoked a 
pipe, and laughed a good deal. He then went 
to bed and slept till dinner-time. Meanwhile 
Flemming sat in his chamber and read. It 
was a large room in the front of the house, 
looking upon the village and the lake. The 
windows were latticed, with small panes, and 
the window-sills filled with fragrant flowers. 

At length the heat of noon was over. Day, 
like a weary pilgrim, had reached the western 
gate of heaven, and Evening stooped down 
to unloose the latchets of his sandal-shoon. 
Flemming and Berkley sallied forth to ramble 
by the borders of the lake. Down the cool 
green glades and alleys, beneath the illumi- 
nated leaves of the forest, over the rising 
grounds in the glimmering fretwork of sun- 
shine and leaf-shadow, — an exhilarating walk ! 
The 900I evening air by the lake was like a 
bath. They drank the freshness of the hour 
in thirsty draughts, and their breasts heaved 
rejoicing and revived, after the feverish, long 
confinement of the sultry summer day. And 
there, too, lay the lake, so beautiful and 


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Btill ! Did it not recall, think ye, the lake of 
Thun ? 

On their return homeward, they passed near 
the village churchyard. 

Let us go in and see how the dead rest,” 
said Flemming, as they passed beneath the 
belfry of the church ; and they went in, and 
lingered among the tombs and the evening 
shadows. 

How peaceful is the dwelling-place of those 
who inhabit the green hamlets and populous 
cities of the dead ! They need no antidote for 
care, — no armor against fate. No morning 
sun shines in at the closed windows and 
awakens them, nor shall until the last great 
day. At most, a straggling sunbeam creeps 
in through the crumbling wall of an old, 
neglected tomb, — a strange visitor, that stays 
not long. And there they all sleep, the holy 
ones, with their arms crossed upon their bi easts, 
or lying motionless by their sides, — not 
carved in marble by the hand of man, but 
formed in dust by the hand of God. God’s 
peace be with them ! No one comes to them 
now, to hold them by the hand, and with del- 
icate fingers to smooth their hair. They heed 
no more the blandishments of earthly friend- 


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ship. They need us not, however much we 
may need them. And yet they silently, await 
our coming. 

Beautiful is that season of life, when we 
can say, in the language of Scripture, “ Thou 
hast the dew of thy youth.” But of these 
flowers Death gathers many. He places 
them upon his bosom, and he is transformed 
into something less terrific than before. We 
learn to gaze and shudder not ; for he carries 
in his arms the sweet blossoms of our earthly 
hopes. We shall see them all again, blooming 
in a happier land. 

Yes, Death brings us again to our friends. 
They are waiting for us, and we shall not long 
delay. They have gone before us, and are like 
the angels in heaven. They stand upon the 
borders of the grave to welcome us, with the 
countenance of affection which they wore on 
earth ; yet more lovely, more radiant, more 
spiritual ! He spake well who said that graves 
are the footprints of angels ! 

Death has taken thee, too, and thou hast the 
dew of thy youth. He has placed thee upon 
his bosom, and his stern countenance wears a 
smile. The far country, toward which we 
journey, seems nearer to us, and the way less 


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dark ; for thou hast gone before, passing so 
quietly to thy rest, that day itself dies not 
more calmly ! 

It was in an hour ol blessed communion 
with the souls of the departed, that the sweet 
poet Henry Vaughan wrote those few lines 
which have made death lovely. 

“ They are all gone into a world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here ! 

Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

“It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 

Or those faint beams in which the hill is dressed 
After the sun’s remove. 

“ I see them walking in an air of glory. 

Whose light doth trample on my days. 

My days, which are at best but dull and hoaiy, 

Mere glimmerings and decays. 

“ O holy hope, and high humility. 

High as the heavens above ! 

These are your walks, and ye have showed them me, 
To kindle my cold love. 

“ Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just I 
Shining nowhere but in the dark 1 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man outlook that mark ! 


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** He that hath found some fledged bird’s nest may know, 
At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 

But what fair field or grove he sings in now, 

That is to him unknown. 

“ And yet as angels, in some brighter dreams, 

Call to the soul when man doth sleep. 

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes. 
And into glory peep. 

“ If a star were confined into a tomb. 

Her captive flame must needs bum there. 

But when the hand that locked her up gave room 
She ’d shine through all the sphere. 

O Father of eternal life, and all 
Created glories under thee ! 

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall 
Into tme liberty. 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 
My perspective, still as they pass, 

Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
Where I shall need no glass.” 


Such were Flemming’s thoughts, as he stood 
among the tombs at evening in the churchyard 
of Saint Gilgen. A holy calrh stole over him. 
The fever of his heart was allayed. He had 
a moment’s rest from pain ; and went back to 
his chamber in peace. Whence came this 
holy calm, this long-desired tranquillity } He 


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knew not ; yet the place seemed consecrated. 
He resolved to linger there beside the lake, 
which was a Pool of Bethesda for him ; and 
let Berkley go on alone to the baths of Ischek 
He would wait for him there in the solitude 
of Saint Gilgen. Long after they had parted 
for the night, he sat in his chamber, and 
thought of what he had suffered, and enjoyed 
the silence within and without. Hour after 
hour slipped by unheeded, as he sat lost in his 
reverie. At length, his candle sank in its 
socket, gave one flickering gleam, and expired 
with a sob. This aroused him. 

He went to the window, and peered out in- 
to the dark night. It was very late. Twice 
already since midnight had the great pulpit- 
orator Time, like a preacher in the days of the 
Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high 
pulpit, the church-belfry, and still went on 
with his sermon, thundering downward to the 
congregation in the churchyard and in the 
village. But they heard him not. They were 
all asleep in their narrow pews, namely, in 
their beds and in their graves. Soon after- 
ward the cock crew ; and the cloudy heaven, 
like the Apostle who denied his Lord, wept 
bitterly. 

IS* 


34 ^ 


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CHAPTER VI. 

Saint Wolfgang 

HE morning is lovely beyond expression. 



The heat of the sun is great ; but a gen- 
tle wind cools the air. Birds never sang more 
loud and clear. The flowers, too, on the win- 
dow-sill, and on the table, rose, geranium, and 
the delicate crimson cactus, are all so beauti- 
ful, that we think the German poet right, when 
he calls the flowers “ stars in the firmament of 
the earth.” Out of doors all is quiet. Oppo- 
site the window stands the village school-house. 
There are two parasite trees, with their out- 
spread branches nailed against the white walls, 
like the wings of culprit kites. There the 
rods grow. Under them, on a bench at the 
door, sit school-girls ; and barefoot urchins in 
breeches are spelling out their lessons. The 
clock strikes twelve, and one by one they dis- 
appear, and go into the hive, like bees at the 
sound of a brass pan. At the door of the 
next house sits a poor woman, knitting in the 


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shade ; and in front ol her is an aqueduct, 
pouring its cool, clear water into a rough 
wooden trough. A travelling-carriage, with- 
out horses, stands at the inn-door, and a pos- 
tilion in red jacket is talking with a black- 
smith, who wears blue woollen stockings and a 
leather apron. Beyond is a stable, and still 
farther a cluster of houses and the village 
church. They are repairing the belfry and 
the bulbous steeple. A little farther, over the 
roofs of the houses, you can see Saint Wolf- 
gang’s lake. Water so bright and beautiful 
hardly flows elsewhere. Green and blue and 
silver-white run into each other, with almost 
imperceptible change. And above are the 
pinnacles of the mountains ; some bald, and 
rocky, and cone-shaped, and others bold, and 
broad, and dark with pines. 

Such was the scene which Paul Flemming 
beheld from his window a few mornings after 
Berkley’s departure. The quiet of the place 
had soothed him. He had become more calm. 
His heart complained less loudly in the holy 
village silence, as we are wont to lower our 
vroices when those around us speak in whis- 
pers. He began to feel at times an interest 
in the lowly things about him. The face of 


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the landscape pleased him, but more than this 
the face of the poor woman who sat knitting 
in the shade. It was a pale, meek counte- 
nance, with more delicacy in its features than 
is usual among peasantry. It wore also an 
expression of patient suffering. As he was 
looking at her, a deformed child came out of 
the door and hung upon her knees. She 
caressed him affectionately. It was her child, 
in whom she beheld her own fair features dis- 
torted and hardly to be recognized, as one 
sometimes sees one’s face reflected from the 
bowl of a spoon. 

The child’s deformity and the mother’s ten- 
derness interested the feelings of Flemming. 
The landlady told him something of the poor 
woman’s history. She was the widow of a 
blacksmith, who had died soon after their mar- 
riage. But she survived to become a mother, 
as, in oaks, immediately after fecundation, the 
male flower fades and falls, while the female 
continues and ripens into perfect fruit. Alas ! 
her child was deformed. Yet she looked upon 
him with eyes of maternal fondness and pity, 
loving him still more for his deformity. And 
in her heart she said, as the Mexicans say to 
their new-born offspring, — Child, thou art 


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come into the world to suffer. Endure, and 
hold thy peace.” Though poor, she was not 
entirely destitute ; for her husband had left 
her, besides the deformed child, a life estate 
in a tomb in the churchyard of Saint Gilgen. 
During the week she labored for other people, 
and on Sundays for herself, by going to church 
and reading the Bible. On one of the blank 
leaves she had recorded the day of her birth, 
and that of her child’s, likewise her marriage 
and her husband’s death. Thus she lived, 
poor, patient, and resigned. Her heart was a 
passion-flower, bearing within it the crown of 
thorns and the cross of Christ. Her ideas of 
heaven were few and simple. She rejected 
the doctrine that it was a place of constant 
activity, and not of repose, and believed that, 
when she at length reached it, she should 
work no more, but sit always in a clean white 
apron, and sing psalms. 

As Flemming sat meditating on these 
things, he paid new homage in his heart to 
the beauty and excellence of the female char- 
acter. He thought of the absent and the 
dead ; and said, with tears in his eyes : — 

“ Shall I thank God for the green sumhier, 
and the mild air, and the flowers, and the 


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stars, and all that makes this world so beau- 
tiful, and not for the good and beautiful beings 
I have known in it ? Has not their presence 
been sweeter to me than flowers ? Are they 
not higher and holier than the stars? Are 
they not more to me than all things else ? ” 

Thus the morning passed away in musings ; 
and in the afternoon, when Flemming was 
preparing to go down to the lake, as his cus- 
tom was, a carriage drew up before the door, 
and, to his great astonishment, out jumped 
Berkley. The first thing he did was to give 
the postmaster, who stood near the door, a 
smart cut with his whip. The sufferer gently 
expostulated, saying, — 

“ Pray, Sir, don’t ; I am lame.” 

Whereupon Berkley desisted, and began in- 
stead to shake the postmaster’s wife by the 
shoulders, and order his dinner in English. 
But all this was done so good-naturedly, and 
with such a rosy, laughing face, that no offence 
was taken. 

“ So you have returned much sooner than 
you intended,” said Flemming, after the first 
friendly salutations. 

“Yes,” replied Berkley; “I became tired of 
Ischel, — very tired. I did not find there the 


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friends I expected. Now I am going back 
to Salzburg, and then to Gastein. There I 
shall certainly find them. You must go with 
me. 

Flemming declined the invitation ; and pro- 
posed to Berkley that he should join him in 
his excursion on the lake. 

“You shall hear the grand echo of the 
Falkenstein,” said he, “and behold the scene 
of the Bridal Tragedy ; and then we will go 
on as far as the village of Saint Wolfgang, 
which you have not yet seen, except across 
the lake.” 

“ Well, this afternoon I devote to you ; for 
to-morrow we part once more, and who knows 
when we shall meet again ? ” 

They went down to the water’s side with- 
out further delay ; and, taking a boat with 
two oars, struck across an elbow of the lake 
towards a barren rock by the eastern shore, 
from which a small white monument shone in 
the sun. 

“That monument,” said one of the boat- 
men, a stout young lad in leather breeches, 
“ was built by a butcher, to the glory of Saint 
Wolfgang, who saved him from drowning. He 
was one day riding an ox to market along the 


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opposite bank ; when the animal, taking fright, 
sprang into the water, and swam over to this 
place, with the butcher on his back.” 

And do you think he could have done 
this,” asked Berkley, “if Saint Wolfgang had 
not helped him ” 

“ Of course not ! ” answered leather-breeches ; 
and the Englishman laughed. 

From this point they rowed along under 
the shore to a low promontory, upon which 
stood another monument, commemorating a 
more tragical event. 

“ This is the place I was speaking of,” said 
Flemming, as the boatmen rested on their oars. 
“The melancholy and singular event it com- 
memorates happened more than two centuries 
ago. There was a bridal party here upon the 
ice, one winter ; and in the midst of the dance 
the ice broke, and the whole merry company 
were drowned together, except the fiddlers, 
who were sitting on the shore.” 

They looked in silence at the monument, 
and at the blue quiet water, under which the 
bones of the dancers lay buried, hand in hand. 
The monument is of stone, painted white, with 
an overhanging roof to shelter it from storms. 
In a niche in front is a small image of the 


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353 


Saviour, in a sitting posture ; and an inscrip- 
tion upon a marble tablet below says that it 
was placed there by Longinus Walther, and 
his wife, Barbara Juliana von Hainberg; them- 
selves long since peacefully crumbled to dust, 
side by side, in some churchyard. 

“That was breaking the ice with a ven- 
geance ! ” said Berkley, as they pushed out 
into the lake again ; and erelong they were 
floating beneath the mighty precipice of Falk- 
enstein ; a steep wall of rock, crowned with a 
chapel and a hermitage, where in days of old 
lived the holy Saint Wolfgang. It is now 
haunted only by an echo, so distinct and loud, 
that one might imagine the ghost of the de- 
parted saint to be sitting there, and repeating 
the voices from below, — not word by word, 
but sentence by sentence, as if he were pass- 
ing them up to the recording angel. 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” shouted Berkley ; and the 
sound seemed to strike the wall of stone, like 
the flapping of steel plates ; — “ Ho ! ho ! hoi 
How are you to-day, Saint Wolfgang .? You 
infernal old rascal ! How is the Frau von 
Wolfgang — God save great George, our king ! 
Damn your eyes ! Hold your tongue ! Ho ! 
ho ! ha ! ha ! hi ! ” 

w 


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And the words were recorded above ; and 
a voice repeated them with awful distinctness 
in the blue depths overhead ; and Flemming 
felt in his inmost soul the contrast between 
the holy heavens, and the mockery of laughter, 
and the idle words, which fall back from the 
sky above us and soil not its purity. 

In half an hour they were at the village of 
Saint Wolfgang, threading a narrow street, 
above which the roofs of quaint, picturesque 
old houses almost met. It led them to a 
Gothic church ; a magnificent one for a vil- 
lage ; — in front of which was a small court, 
shut in by Italian-looking houses, with bal- 
conies, and flowers at the windows. Here a 
bronze fountain of elaborate workmanship 
was playing in the shade. On its summit 
stood an image of the patron saint of the 
village ; and, running round the under lip of 
the water-basin below, they read this inscrip- 
tion in old German rhymes : — 

“I am in the honor of Saint Wolfgang 
raised. Abbot Wolfgang Habel of Emensee, 
he hath made me for the use and delight of 
poor pilgrim wight. Neither gold nor wine 
hath he ; at this water shall he merry be. In 
the year of the Lord fifteen hundred and fif 


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355 

teen hath the work completed been. God be 
praised ! 

As they were deciphering the rude characters 
of this pious inscription, a village priest came 
down a high flight of steps from the parsonage 
near the church, and courteously saluted the 
strangers. After returning the salutation, the 
mad Englishman, without preface, asked him 
how many natural children were annually born 
in the parish. The question seemed to aston- 
ish the good father ; but he answered it civilly, 
as he did several other questions, which Flem- 
ming thought rather indiscreet, to say the 
least. 

“You will excuse our curiosity,” said he to 
the priest, by way of apology. “We are stran- 
gers from distant countries. My friend is an 
Englishman, and I an American.” 

Berkley, however, was not so easily silenced. 
After a few moments’ conversation, he broke 
out into most audacious Latin, in which the 
only words clearly intelligible were : — 

“ Plurimum reverende, in Christo religiosis- 
sime ac clarissime Domine, necnon et amice 
observandissime ! Petrus sic est locutus : * Nec 
argentum mihi. nec aurum est ; sed quod ha- 
beo, hoc tibi do ; surge et ambula.’ ” 


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He seemed to be speaking of the fountaia 
The priest answered meekly, — 

“ Non intellexi, Domine ! ” 

But Berkley continued with great volubility 
to speak of his being a stranger in the land, 
and all men being strangers upon earth, and 
hoping to meet the good priest hereafter in 
the kingdom of heaven. The priest seemed 
confounded and abashed. Through the mist 
of a strange pronunciation, he could recognize 
only here and there a familiar word. He took 
out his snuff-box ; and tried to quote a pas- 
sage from Saint Paul : — 

“ Ut dixit Sanctus Paulus : Qui bene fa- 
cit ” 

Here his memory failed him, or, as the 
French say, he was at the end of his Latin, 
and, stretching forth his long forefinger, he 
concluded in German : — 

“ Yes ; — I don’t — so clearly remember — * 
what he did say.” 

The Englishman helped him through with a 
moral phrase ; and then, pulling off his hat, 
exclaimed very solemnly : — 

“Vale, Domine doctissime et reverendis- 
sime ! ” 

And the Dominie, as if pursued by a demon. 


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357 

made a sudden and precipitate retreat down a 
flight of steps into the street. 

“ There ! ” said Berkley, laughing, “ I beat 
him at his own weapons. What do you say 
of my Latin } ” 

“ I say of it,” replied Flemming, what Ho- 
lofernes said of Sir Nathaniel’s: — ‘Priscian a 
little scratched ; ’t will serve.’ I think I have 
heard better. But what a whim ! I thought I 
should have laughed aloud.” 

They were .still sitting by the bronze foun- 
tain, when the priest returned, accompanied 
by a short man, with large feet, and a long 
blue surtout, so greasy, that it reminded one 
of Polilla’s in the Spanish play, which was 
lined with slices of pork. His countenance 
was broad and placid, but his blue eyes 
gleamed with a wild, mysterious, sorrowful 
expression. Flemming thought the Latin 
contest was to be renewed, with more pow- 
der and heavier guns. He was mistaken. 
The stranger saluted him in German, and 
said, that, having heard he was from America, 
he had come to question him about that dis- 
tant country, for which he was on the point 
of embarking. There was nothing peculiar in 
his manner, nor in the questions he asked, nor 


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the remarks he made. They were the usual 
questions and remarks about cities and cli- 
mate and sailing the sea. At length Flem- 
ming asked him the object of his journey to 
America. The stranger came close to him, 
and, lowering his voice, said very solemnly : — 
“ That holy man, Frederick Baraga, mis- 
sionary among the Indians at Lacroix, on 
Lake Superior, has returned to his fatherland, 
Krain ; and I am chosen by Heaven to go 
forth as Minister Extraordinary of Christ, to 
unite all nations and people in one church ! ” 
Flemming almost started at the singular 
earnestness with which he uttered these words ; 
and looked at him attentively, thinking to see 
the face of a madman. But the modest, 
unassuming look of that placid countenance 
was unchanged ; only in the eyes burned a 
mysterious light, as if candles had been lighted 
in the brain, to magnify the daylight there. 

“It is truly a high vocation,” said he, in 
reply. “ But are you sure that this is no hal- 
lucination } Are you certain that you have 
been chosen by Heaven for this great work ? ” 

“ I am certain,” replied the German, in a 
tone of great calmness and sincerity ; “ and 
if Saint Peter and Saint Paul should come 


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359 


down from heaven to assure me of it, my faith 
would be no stronger than it now is. It has 
been declared to me by many signs and won- 
ders. I can no longer doubt nor hesitate. I 
have already heard the voice of the Spirit, 
speaking to me at night ; and I know that I 
am an Apostle, and chosen for this work.” 

Such was the calm enthusiasm with which 
he spoke, that Flemming could not choose but 
listen. He felt interested in this strange be- 
ing. There was something awe-inspiring in 
the spirit that possessed him. After a short 
pause, he continued : — 

If you wish to know who I am, I can tell 
you in few words. I think you will not find 
the story without interest.” 

He then went on to relate the circumstances 
recorded in the following chapter. 


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CHAPTER VII. 

The Story of Brother Bernardus 

“ T was born in the city of Stein, in the land 
J- of Krain. My pious mother, Gertrude, 
sang me psalms and spiritual songs in child- 
hood ; and often, when I awoke in the night, I 
saw her still sitting patiently at her work, by 
the stove, and heard her singing those hymns 
of heaven, or praying in the midnight darkness 
when her work was done. It was for me she 
prayed. Thus, from my earliest childhood, I 
breathed the breath of pious aspirations. Af- 
terwards I went to Laybach, as a student of 
theology; and, after the usual course of study, 
was ordained a priest. I went forth to the 
care of souls ; my own soul filled with the 
faith that erelong all people would be united 
in one church. Yet at times my heart was 
heavy, to behold how many nations there are 
who have not heard of Christ ; and how those 
who are called Christians are divided into 
numberless sects, and how among these are 


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361 

many who are Christians in name only. I 
determined to devote myself to the great work 
of the one Church Universal, and, for this pur- 
pose, to give myself wholly up to the study of 
the Evangelists and the Fathers. I retired to 
the Benedictine cloister of Saint Paul in the 
valley of Lavant. The father-confessor in the 
nunnery of Laak, where I then lived, strength- 
ened me in this resolve. I had long walked 
with this angel of God in a human form, and 
his parting benediction sank deep into my soul. 
The Prince-Abbot Berthold, of blessed mem- 
ory, was then head of the Benedictine convent. 
He received me kindly, and led me to the 
library ; where I gazed with secret rapture on 
the vast folios of the Christian Fathers, from 
which, as from an arsenal, I was to draw the 
weapons of holy warfare. In the study of 
these the year of my novitiate passed. I be- 
came a Franciscan friar, and took the name of 
Brother Bernardus. Yet my course of life re- 
mained unchanged. I seldom left the cloister ; 
but sat in my cell, and pored over those tomes 
of holy wisdom. About this time the aged con- 
fessor in Laak departed this life. His death 
was made known to me in a dream. It must 
have been after midnight, when I thought that 
16 


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I came into the church, which was brilliantly 
lighted up. The dead body of the venerable 
saint was brought in, attended by a great crowd. 
It seemed to me that I must go up into the 
pulpit and pronounce his funeral oration ; and 
as I ascended the stairs the words of my text 
came into my mind, — ‘ Blessed in the sight 
of the Lord is the death of his saints.’ My 
funeral sermon ended in a strain of exultation ; 
and I awoke with ‘ Amen ! ’ upon my lips. A 
few days afterwards^ I heard that on that 
night the old man died. After this event, I 
became restless and melancholy. I strove in 
vain to drive away my gloomy thoughts. I 
could no longer study. I was no longer con- 
tented in the cloister. I even thought of 
leaving it. 

“ One night, I had gone to bed early, accord- 
ing to my custom, and had fallen asleep. Sud- 
denly I was awakened by a bright and won- 
derful light, which shone all about me, and 
filled me with heavenly rapture. Shortly after, 
I heard a voice, which pronounced distinctly 
these words, in the Sclavonian tongue : — 
Remain in the cloister ! ’ It was the voice of 
my departed mother. I was fully awake ; yet 
saw nothing but the bright light, which dis. 


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appeared when the words had been spoken. 
Still it was broad daylight in my chamber. 
I thought I had slept beyond my usual hour. 
I looked at my watch. It was just one o’clock 
after midnight. Suddenly the daylight van- 
ished, and it was dark. In the morning I 
arose, as if new-born, through the wonderful 
light and the words of my mother’s voice. It 
was no dream. I knew it was the will of God 
that I should stay ; and I could again give 
myself up to quiet study. I read the whole 
Bible through once more in the original text ; 
and went on with the Fathers in chronological 
order. Often, after the apparition of the light, 
I awoke at the same hour ; and though I heard 
no voice and saw no light, yet was refreshed 
with heavenly consolation. 

“Not long after this, an important event 
happened in the cloister. In the absence of 
the deacon of the abbey, I was to preach the 
Thanksgiving sermon of Harvest-home. Dur- 
ing the week, the Prince-Abbot Berthold gave 
up the ghost ; and my sermon became at once 
a thanksgiving and funeral sermon. Perhaps 
it may not be unworthy of notice, that I was 
thus called to pronounce the burial discourse 
over the body of the last reigning spiritual 


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Prince- Abbot in Germany. He was a man oi 
God, and worthy of this honor. 

“ One year after this event, I was appointed 
Professor of Biblical Hermeneutics in Klagen- 
furt, and left the abbey for ever. In Klagenfurt 
I remained ten years, dwelling in the same 
house, and eating at the same table, with 
seventeen other Professors. Their conversa- 
tion naturally suggested new topics of study, 
and brought to my notice books which I had 
never before seen. One day I heard at table, 
that Maurus Cappellari, a monk of Camaldoli, 
had been elected Pope, under the name of 
Gregory Sixteenth. He was spoken of as a 
very learned man, who. had written many 
books. At this time I was a firm believer in 
the Pope’s infallibility ; and when I heard these 
books mentioned, there arose, in me an irre- 
sistible longing to read them. I inquired for 
them ; but they were nowhere to be had. At 
length I heard that his most important work, 
‘The Triumph of the Holy See and of the 
Church,’ had been translated into German and 
published in Augsburg. Erelong the precious 
volume was in my hands. I began to read 
it with the profoundest awe. The farther I 
read, the more my wonder grew. The subject 


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tvas of the deepest interest to me. I could 
not lay the book out of my hand, till I had 
read it through with the closest attention. 
Now at length my eyes were opened. I saw 
before me a monk who had been educated 
in an Italian cloister ; who indeed had read 
much, and yet only what was calculated to 
strengthen him in the prejudices of his child- 
hood, and who had entirely neglected those 
studies upon which a bishop should most rely, 
in order to work out the salvation of man. I 
perceived, at the same time, that this was the 
strongest instrument for battering down the 
walls which separate Christian from Christian. 
I saw, though as yet dimly, the way in which 
the union of Christians in the one true Church 
was to be accomplished. I knew not whether 
to be most astonished at my own blindness, 
that, in all my previous studies, I had not 
perceived what the reading of this single book 
made manifest to me ; or at the blindness of 
the Pope, who had undertaken to justify such 
follies, without perceiving that at the same 
moment he was himself lying in fatal error. 
But since I have learned more thoroughly the 
tvays of the Lord, I am now no more aston- 
ished at this, but pray only to Divine Provi* 


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dence, who so mysteriously prepares all people 
to be united in one true Church, I no longei 
believed in the Pope’s infallibility ; nay, I 
believed even, that, to the great injury of 
humanity, he lay in fatal error. I felt, more- 
over, that now the time had fully come when 
I should publicly show myself, and found in 
America a parish and a school, and become 
the spiritual guide of men and the school- 
master of children. 

*‘It was then, and on that account, that I 
wrote in the Latin tongue my great work on 
Biblical Hermeneutics. But in Germany it 
cannot be published. The Austrian censor 
of the press cannot find time to read it ; 
though I think, that, if I have spent so many 
laborious days and sleepless nights in writing 
it, this man ought likewise to find time enough 
not only to read it, but to examine all the 
grounds of my reasoning, and point out to me 
my errors, if he can find any. Notwithstand- 
ing, the Spirit gave me no repose, but urged 
me ever mightily on to the perfection of my 
great work. 

“ One morning I sat writing, under peculiar 
influences of the Spirit, upon the Confusion 
of Tongues, the Division of the People, and 


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the importance of the study of Comparative 
Philology, in reference to their union in one 
Church. So wrapped was I in the thought, 
that I came late into my lecture-room ; and 
after lecture returned to my chamber, where I 
wrote till the clock struck twelve. At dinner, 
one of the Professors asked if any one had 
seen the star about which so much was said. 
The Professor of Physics said that the stu- 
dent Johannes Schminke had come to him in 
the greatest haste, and besought him to go 
out and see the wonderful star ; but, being 
incredulous about it, he mkde no haste, and 
when they came into the street, the star had 
disappeared. When I heard the star spoken 
of, my soul was filled with rapture ; and a 
voice within me seemed to say, ‘The great 
time is approaching ; labor unweariedly in thy 
work.’ I sought out the student, and, like 
Herod, inquired diligently at what time the 
star appeared. He informed me, that, just 
as the clock was striking eight in the morn- 
ing, he went out of his house to go to the 
college, and saw on the square a crowd look- 
ing at a bright star. It was the very hour 
when I was writing alone in my chamber 
m the importance of Comparative Philology 


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in bringing about the union of all nations. 
I felt that my hour had come. Strangely 
moved, I walked up and down my chamber. 
The evening twilight came on. I lighted my 
lamp, and drew the green curtains before the 
windows, and sat down to read. But hardly 
had I taken the book into my hand, when the 
Spirit began to move me, and urge me then to 
make my last decision and resolve. I made 
a secret vow that I would undertake the 
voyage to America. Suddenly my troubled 
thoughts were still. An unwonted rapture 
filled my heart. I sat and read till the sup-, 
per-bell rang. They were speaking at table 
of a red, glaring meteor, which had just been 
seen in the air, southeast from Klagenfurt, and 
had suddenly disappeared with a dull, hollow 
sound. It was the very moment at which I 
had taken my final resolution to leave my 
native land. Every great purpose and event 
of my life seemed heralded and attended by 
divine messengers, — the voices of the dead, 
the bright morning star shining in the clear 
sunshine, and the red meteor in the evening 
twilight. 

“I now began seriously to prepare for my 
departure. The chamber I occupied had once 


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been the library of a Franciscan convent. 
Only a thick wall separated it from the church. 
In this wall was a niche, with heavy folding- 
doors, which had served the Franciscans as a 
repository for prohibited books. Here also I 
kept my papers, and my great work on Biblical 
Hermeneutics. The inside of the doors was 
covered with horrible caricatures of Luther, 
Melancthon, Calvin, and other great men. I 
used often to look at them with the deepest 
melancholy, when I thought that these great 
men likewise had labored upon earth, and fought 
with Satan in the Church. But they were per- 
secuted, denounced, condemned to die. So 
perhaps will it be with me. I thought of this 
often, and armed myself against the fear of 
death. I was in constant apprehension, lest 
the police should search my chamber during 
my absence, and, by examining my papers, 
discover my doctrine and designs. But the 
Spirit said to me : ‘ Be of good cheer ; I will 
so blind the eyes of thy enemies, that it shall 
not once occur to them to think of thy writ- 
ings.’ 

At length, after many difficulties and temp- 
tations of the Devil, I am on my way to Amer- 
ica. Yesterday I took leave of my dearest 

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friend, Gregory Kuscher, in Hallstadt. He 
seemed filled with the Spirit of God, and has 
wonderfully strengthened me in my purpose. 
All the hosts of heaven looked on, and were 
glad. The old man kissed me, at parting ; 
and I ascended the mountain as if angels bore 
me up in their arms. Near the summit lay a 
newly fallen avalanche, over which, as yet, no 
footsteps had passed. This was my last temp- 
tation. ^Ha!’ cried I aloud, 'Satan has pre- 
pared a snare for me ; but I will conquer him 
with godly weapons.’ I sprang over the 
treacherous snow, with greater faith than St. 
Peter walked the waters of the Lake of Gali- 
lee ; and came down the valley, while the 
mountain peaks yet shone in the setting sun. 
God smiles upon me. I go forth full of hope- 
ful courage. On Christmas next, I shall ex- 
communicate the Pope.” 

Saying these words, he slowly and sol- 
emnly took his leave, like one conscious of the 
great events which awaited him, and withdrew 
with the other priest into the church. Flem- 
ming could not smile as Berkley did ; for in 
the solitary, singular enthusiast, who had just 
left them, he saw only another melancholy 
victim to solitude and over-labor of the brain ; 


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and felt how painful a thing it is thus to be- 
. come unconsciously the almsman of other 
men’s sympathies, a kind of blind beggar for 
the charity of a good wish or a prayer. 

The sun was now setting. Silently they 
floated back to Saint Gilgen, amid the cool 
evening shadows. The village clock struck 
nme, as they landed ; and as Berkley was to 
depart early in the morning, he went to bed 
betimes. On bidding Flemming good night, 
he said : — 

“ I shall not see you in the morning ; so 
good by, and God bless you. Remember my 
parting words. Never mind trifles. In this 
world a man must either be anvil or hammer. 
Care killed a cat ! ” 

“ I have heard you say that so often,” replied 
Flemming, laughing, “ that I begin to believe 
it. But I wonder if Care shaved his left eye- 
brow after doing the deed, as the ancient 
Egyptians used to do ! ” 

“ Aha ! now you are sweeping cobwebs 
from the sky ! Good night ! Good night ! ” 

A sorrowful event happened in the neigh- 
borhood that night. The widow’s child died 
suddenly. “ Woe is me ! ” — thus mourns the 
childless mother in one of the funeral sones 


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of Greenland ; — “Woe is me, that I shou.l 3 
gaze upon thy place and find it vacant ! In 
vain for thee thy mother dries the sea-drenched 
garments!” Not in these words, but in 
thoughts like these, did the poor mother bewail 
the death of her child, thinking mostly of the 
vacant place, and the daily cares and solici- 
tudes of maternal love. Flemming saw a light 
in her chamber, and shadows moving to and 
fro, as he stoqd by the window, gazing into the 
starry, silent sky. But he little thought of the 
awful domestic tragedy which was even then 
enacted behind those thin curtains I 


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CHAPTER VIII. 

Footprints of Angels 

I T was Sunday morning ; and the church 
bells were all ringing together. From the 
neighboring villages came the solemn, joyful 
sounds, floating through the sunny air, mellow 
and faint and low, — all mingling into one 
harmonious chime, like the sound of some dis- 
tant organ in heaven. Anon they ceased ; and 
the woods, and the clouds, and the whole vil- 
lage, and the very air itself, seemed to pray, 
■ — so silent was it everywhere. 

Two venerable old men — high-priests and 
patriarchs were they in the land — went up 
the pulpit stairs, as Moses and Aaron went up 
Mount Hor, in the sight of all the congrega- 
tion, — for the pulpit stairs were in front, and 
very high. 

Paul Flemming will never forget the sermon 
he heard that day, — no, not even if he should 
live to be as old as he who preached it. The 
text was, “ I know that my Redeemer liveth.’* 


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It was meant to console the pious, poor widow, 
who sat right below him at the foot of the pul- 
pit stairs, all in black, and her heart breaking. 
He said nothing of the terrors of death, nor 
of the gloom of the narrow house ; but, look- 
ing beyond these things, as mere circumstances 
to which the imagination mainly gives impor- 
tance, he told his hearers of the innocence of 
childhood upon earth, and the holiness of 
childhood in heaven, and how the beautiful 
Lord Jesus was once a little child, and now in 
heaven the spirits of little children walked 
with him, and gathered flowers in the flelds 
of Paradise. Good old man ! In behalf of 
humanity, I thank thee for these benignant 
words ! And still more than I, the bereaved 
mother thanked thee ; and from that hour, 
though she wept in secret for her child, yet 

“ She knew he was with Jesus, 

And she asked him not again.” 

After the sermon, Paul Flemming walked 
forth alone into the churchyard. There was 
no one there, save a little boy, who was fishing 
with a pin hook in a grave half full of water. 
But a few moments afterward, through the 
arched gateway under the belfry came a fu- 


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neral procession. At its head walked a priest 
in white surplice, chanting. Peasants, old and 
young, followed him, with burning tapers in 
their hands. A young girl carried in her 
arms a dead child, wrapped in its little wind- 
ing-sheet. The grave was close under the 
wall, by the church-door. A vase of holy 
water stood beside it. The sexton took the 
child from the girl’s arms, and put it into a 
cofhn ; and, as he placed it in the grave, the 
girl held over it a cross wreathed with roses, 
and the priest and peasants sang a funeral 
hymn. When this was over, the priest sprin- 
kled the grave and the crowd with holy water ; 
and then they all went into the church, each 
one stopping, as he passed the grave, to throw 
a handful of earth into it, and sprinkle it with 
the hyssop. 

A few moments afterwards, the voice of the 
priest was heard saying mass in the church, 
and Flemming saw the toothless old sexton 
treading, with his clouted shoes, the fresh 
earth into the grave of the little child. He 
approached him, and asked the age of the 
deceased. The sexton leaned a moment on 
his spade, and, shrugging his shoulders, re- 
plied : — 


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** Only an hour or two. It was born in 
the night, and died this morning early.” 

“A brief existence,” said Flemming. The 
child seems to have been born only to be 
buried and have its name recorded on a 
wooden tombstone.” 

The sexton went on with his work, and 
made no reply. Flemming still lingered 
among the graves, gazing with wonder at 
the strange devices by which man has ren- 
dered death horrible and the grave loath- 
some.^ 

In the temple of Juno at Elis, Sleep and 
his twin-brother. Death, were represented as 
children reposing in the arms of Night. On 
various funeral monuments of the ancients 
the Genius of Death is sculptured as a beau- 
tiful youth, leaning on an inverted torch, in 
the attitude of repose, his wings folded and 
his feet crossed. In such peaceful and attrac- 
tive forms did the imagination of ancient poets 
and sculptors represent death. And these 
were men in whose souls the religion of Na- 
ture was like the light of stars, beautiful, but 
faint and cold ! Strange, that, in later days, 
this angel of God, which leads us with a gentle 
hand into the “land of the great departed, 


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377 


into the silent land,” should have been trans- 
formed into a monstrous and terrific thing ! 
Such is the spectral rider on the white 
horse ; — such the ghastly skeleton with scythe 
and hour-glass, — the Reaper, whose name is 
Death ! 

One of the most popular themes of poetry 
and painting in the Middle Ages, and continu- 
ing down even into modern times, was the 
Dance of Death. In almost all languages is 
it written, — the apparition of the grim spec- 
tre putting a sudden stop to all business, and 
leading men away into the “ remarkable re- 
tirement” of the grave. It is written in an 
ancient Spanish poem, and painted on a wood- 
en bridge in Switzerland. The designs of 
Holbein are well known. The most striking 
among them is that, where, from a group of 
children sitting round a cottage hearth, Death 
has taken one by the hand, and is leading it 
out of the door. Quietly and unresisting goes 
the little child, and in its countenance no grief, 
but wonder only ; while the other children are 
weeping and stretching forth their hands in 
vain towards their departing brother. It is 
a beautiful design, in all save the skeleton. 
An angel had been better, with folded wings, 
and torch inverted 


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And now the sun was growing high and 
warm. A little chapel, whose door stood 
open, seemed to invite Flemming to enter 
and enjoy the grateful coolness. He went 
in. There was no one there. The walls were 
covered with paintings and sculpture of the 
rudest kind, and with a few funeral tablets. 
There was nothing there to move the heart 
to devotion ; but in that hour the heart of 
Flemming was weak, — weak as a child’s. He 
bowed his stubborn knees, and wept. And, O, 
how many disappointed hopes, how many bit- 
ter recollections, how much of wounded pride 
and unrequited love, were in those tears through 
which he read, on a marble tablet in the chapel 
wall opposite, this singular inscription : — 

“ Look not mournfully into the Past. It 
comes not back again. Wisely improve the 
Present. It is thine. Go forth to meet the 
shadowy Future, without fear, and with a 
manly heart.” 

It seemed to him as if the unknown tenant 
of that grave had opened his lips of dust, and 
spoken to him the words of consolation, which 
his soul needed, and which no friend had yet 
spoken. In a moment the anguish of his 
thoughts was still. The stone was rolled away 


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from the door of his heart ; death was no 
longer there, but an angel clothed in white. 
He stood up, and his eyes were no more 
bleared with tears ; and, looking into the 
bright morning heaven, he said : — , 

“ I will be strong ! ” 

Men sometimes go down into tombs, with 
painful longings to behold once more the faces 
of their departed friends ; and as they gaze 
upon them, lying there so peacefully with 
the semblance that they wore on earth, the 
sweet breath of heaven touches them, and 
the features crumble and fall together, and 
are but dust. So did his soul then descend 
for the last time into the great tomb of the 
Past, with painful longings to behold once 
more the dear faces of those he had loved ; 
and the sweet breath of heaven touched them, 
and they would not stay, but crumbled away 
and perished as he gazed. They, too, were 
dust. And thus, far-sounding, he heard the 
great gate of the Past shut behind him, as 
the divine poet did the gate of Paradise, 
when the angel pointed him the way up the 
Holy Mountain ; and to him likewise was it 
farbidden to look back. 

In the life of every man there are sudden 


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transitions of feeling, which seem almost mi- 
raculous. At once, as if some magician had 
touched the heavens and the earth, the dark 
clouds melt into the air, the wind falls, and 
seienity succeeds the storm. The causes 
which produce these sudden changes may 
have been long at work within us ; but the 
changes themselves are instantaneous, and 
apparently without sufficient cause. It was 
so with Flemming ; and from that hour forth 
he resolved that he would no longer veer 
with every shifting wind of circumstance, — 
no longer be a child’s plaything in the hands 
of Fate, which we ourselves do make or mar. 
He resolved henceforward not to lean on 
others ; but to walk self-confident and self- 
possessed ; — no longer to waste his years in 
vain regrets, nor wait the fulfilment of bound- 
less hopes and indiscreet desires ; but to live 
in the Present wisely, alike forgetful of the 
Past, and careless of what the mysterious 
Future might bring. And from that moment 
he was calm and strong ; he was reconciled 
with himself His thoughts turned to his 
distant home beyond the sea. An indescrib- 
able sweet feeling rose within him. 

“ Thither will I turn my wandering foot- 


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381 

steps,” said he, “ and be a man among men, 
and no longer a dreamer among shadows. 
Henceforth be mine a life of action and real- 
ity ! I will work in my own sphere, nor wish 
it other than it is. This alone is health and 
happiness. This alone is Life, — 

‘ Life that shall send 
A challenge to its end, 

And when it comes, say, Welcome, friend!’ 

Why have I not made these sage reflections, 
this wise resolve, sooner .? Can such a simple 
result spring only from the long and intricate 
process of experience } Alas ! it is not till 
time, with reckless hand, has torn out half 
the leaves from the Book of Human Life, to 
light the fires of passion with, from day to 
day, that man begins to see that the leaves 
which remain are few in number, and to re- 
member, faintly at first, and then more clearly, 
that upon the earlier pages of that book was 
written a story of happy innocence, which he 
would fain read over again. Then come list- 
less irresolution, and the inevitable inaction 
of despair ; or else the firm resolve to record 
upon the leaves that still remain a more noble 
history than the child’s story with which the 
book began.” 


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CHAPTER IX. 

The Last Pang 

AREWELL to thee, Saint Gilgen ! ” 



said Flemming, as he turned on the 
brow of the hill, to take his last look at the 
lake and the village below, and felt that this 
was one of the few spots on the wide earth 
to which he could say farewell with regret. 
“Thy majestic hills have impressed them- 
selves upon my soul, as a seal upon wax. 
The quiet beauty of thy lake shall be to me 
forever an image of peace and purity and still- 
ness, and that inscription in thy little church- 
yard a sentence of wisdom for my after life.” 

Before the setting of the same sun which 
then shone on that fair landscape, he was far 
on his way towards Munich. He had left 
behind him the mountains of the Tyrol ; and 
beheld them for the last time in the soft 
evening twilight, their bases green with for- 
est-trees, and here and there a sharp rocky 
spire, and a rounded summit capped with 


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383 


snow. There they lay, their backs like the 
backs of camels ; a mighty caravan, reposing 
at evening in its march across the desert. 

From Munich he passed through Augsburg 
and Ulm, on his way to Stuttgard. At the 
entrances of towns and villages, he saw large 
crucifixes ; and on the fronts of many houses, 
coarse paintings and images of saints. In. 
Gunzburg three priests in black were slowly 
passing down the street, and women fell on 
their knees to receive a blessing. There were 
many beggars, too, in the streets ; and an old 
man who was making hay in a field by the 
road-side, when he saw the carriage approach- 
ing, threw down his rake, and came tumbling 
over the ditch, uttering the most dismal wail, 
with his hat held out in both hands. The 
next day, the bright yellow jackets of the 
postilions, and the two great tassels of their 
bugle-horns, dangling down their backs, like 
cauliflowers, told him he was in Wiirtemberg ; 
and, late in the evening, he stopped at a hotel 
in Stuttgard, and from his chamber-window 
saw, in the bright moonlight, the old Gothic 
cathedral, with its narrow, lancet windows 
and jutting buttresses, right in front of him. 
Erelong he had forgotten all his cares and 


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sorrows in sleep, and with them his hopes, 
and wishes, and good resolves. 

He was still sitting at breakfast in his 
chamber, the next morning, when the great 
bell of the cathedral opposite began to ring, 
and reminded him that it was Sunday. Ere- 
long the organ answered from within, and 
from its golden lips breathed forth a psalm. 
The congregation began to assemble, and 
Flemming went up with them to the house 
of the Lord. In the body of the church he 
found the pews all filled or locked ; they 
seemed to belong to families. He went up 
into the gallery, and looked over the psalm- 
book of a peasant, while the congregation 
sang the sublime old hymn of Martin Lu- 
ther, — 

“Our God, he is a tower of strength, 

A trusty shield and weapon.” 

During the singing, a fat clergyman, clad in 
black, with a surplice thrown loosely about 
him, came pacing along one of the aisles, 
from beneath the organ-loft, and ascended 
the pulpit. After the hymn, he read a por- 
tion of Scripture, and then said : — 

“ Let us unite in silent prayer.” 

And turning round, he knelt in the pulpit, 


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while the congregation remained standing. 
For a while there was a breathless silence 
in the church, which to Flemming was more 
solemnly impressive than any audible prayer. 
The clergyman then arose, and began his 
sermon. His theme was the Reformation ; 
and he attempted to prove how much easier 
it was to enter the kingdom of Heaven 
through the gateways of the Reformed Evan- 
gelical German Church, than by the aisles 
and penitential staircases of Saint Peter’s. 
He then gave a history of the Reformation ; 
and when Flemming thought he was near 
the end, he heard him say that he should 
divide his discourse into four heads. This 
reminded him of the sturdy old Puritan, Cot- 
ton Mather, who, after preaching an hour, 
would coolly turn the hour-glass on the pul- 
pit, and say : “ Now, my beloved hearers, let 
us take another glass.” He stole out into 
the silent, deserted street, and went to visit 
the veteran sculptor Dannecker. He found 
him sitting alone, with his psalm-book, and 
the reminiscences of a life of eighty years. 
As Flemming entered, he arose from the 
sofa, and tottered towards him ; a venerable 
old man of low stature, dressed in a loose 
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white jacket, with a face like Franklin’s, a 
pale blue eye, and his white hair flowing over 
his shoulders. 

“ So you are from America,” said he. “ But 
you have a German name. Paul Flemming 
was one of our old poets. I have never 
been in America, and never shall go there. 
I am now too old. I have been in Paris 
and in Rome. But that was long ago. I 
am now eight-and-seventy years old.” 

Here he took Flemming by the hand, and 
made him sit down by his side, on the sofa. 
And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep 
over him, on touching the hand of the good 
old man, who sat so serenely amid the gather- 
ing shade of years, and listened to life’s cur- 
few-bell, telling, with eight-and-seventy solemn 
strokes, that the hour had come when the 
flres of all earthly passion must be quenched 
within, and man must prepare to lie down 
and rest till the morning. 

You see,” he continued, in a melancholy 
tone, “ my hands are cold ; colder than yours. 
They were warmer once. I am now an old 
man.” 

Yet these are the hands,” answered Flem- 
ming, that sculptured the beautiful Ariadne 


A Romance 387 

and the Panther. The soul never grows 
old.” 

“ Nor does Nature,” said the old man, 
pleased with this allusion to his great work, 
and pointing to the green trees before his 
window. “ This pleasure I have left to me. 
My sight is still good. I can even distin- 
guish objects on the side of yonder moun- 
tain. My hearing is also unimpaired. For 
all which I thank God.” 

Then, directing Flemming’s attention to a 
fine engraving, which hung on the opposite 
wall of the room, he continued : — 

*‘That is an engraving of Canova’s Re- 
ligion. I love to sit here and look at it, for 
hours together. It is beautiful. He made 
the statue for his native town, where they 
had no church until he built them one. He 
placed the statue in it. This engraving he 
sent me as a present. Ah, he was a dear, 
good man. The name of his native town I 
have forgotten. My memory fails me. I 
cannot remember names.” 

Fearful that he had disturbed the old man 
in his morning devotions, Flemming did not 
remain long, but took his leave with regret. 
There was something impressive in the scene 


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he had witnessed ; — this beautiful old age 
of the artist ; sitting by the open window, in 
the bright summer morning, — the labor of 
life accomplished, the horizon reached, where 
heaven and earth meet, — thinking it was 
angel’s music, when he heard the church-bells 
ring ; himself too old to go. As he walked 
back to his chamber, he thought within him^ 
self whether he likewise might not accom- 
plish something which should live after him, 
^ might not bring something permanent out 
.^f this fast-fleeting life, and then sit down, 
like the artist, in serene old age, and fold 
his hands in silence. He wondered how a 
man felt when he grew so old that he could 
no longer go to church, but must sit at home 
Bind read the Bible in large print. His heart 
was full of indefinite longings, mingled with 
regrets ; longings to accomplish something 
worthy of life ; regret that as yet he had ac- 
complished nothing, but had felt and dreamed 
only. Thus the warm days in spring bring 
forth passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. It 
is only after midsummer, when the days grow 
shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. 
Then the heat of the day brings forward the 
harvest, and after the harvest the leaves lall, 


A Romance 


389 


and there is a gray frost. Much meditating 
upon these things, Paul Flemming reached 
his hotel. At that moment a person clad 
in green came down the church steps, and 
crossed the street. It was the German me- 
chanic of Interlachen. Flemming started, as 
if a green snake had suddenly crossed his 
path. He took refuge in his chamber. 

That night, as he was sitting alone, having 
made his preparations to depart the following 
morning, his attention was arrested by the 
sound of a female voice in the next room. A 
thin partition, with a door, separated it from 
his own. He had not before observed that the 
room was occupied. But, in the stillness of the 
night, the tones of that voice struck his ear. 
He listened. It was a lady, reading the pray- 
ers of the English Church. The tones were 
familiar, and awakened at once a thousand 
painfully sweet recollections. It was the voice 
of Mary Ashburton ! His heart could not be 
deceived ; and all its wounds began to bleed 
afresh, like those of a murdered man when 
the murderer approaches. His first impulse 
was of affection only, boundless, irrepressible; 
delirious, as of old in the green valley of 
Interlachen. He waited for the voice to cease, 


390 


Hyperion 


that he might go to her, and behold her 
face once more. And then his pride rose 
up within him, and rebuked this weakness. 
He remembered his firm resolve, and blushed 
to find himself so feeble. And the voice 
ceased, and yet he did not go. Pride had 
so far gained the mastery over affection. He 
lay down upon his bed, like a child as he was. 
All about him was silence, and the silence 
was holy, for she was near ; so near, that he 
could almost hear the beating of her heart 
He knew now for the first time how weak 
he was, and how strong was his passion for 
that woman. His heart was like the altar 
of the Israelites of old ; and, though drenched 
with tears, as with rain, it was kindled at 
once by the holy fire from heaven ! 

Towards morning he fell asleep, exhausted 
with the strong excitement ; and, in that hour, 
when, sleep being “nigh unto the soul,” vis* 
ions are deemed prophetic, he dreamed. O 
blessed vision of the morning, stay ! thou wast 
so fair! He stood again on the green sunny 
meadow, beneath the ruined tower ; and she 
was by his side, with her pale, speaking coun- 
tenance and holy eyes ; and he kissed her fair 
forehead ; and she turned her face towards 


A Romance 


39 i 

him, beaming with affection, and said, “ I 
confess it now ; you are the Magician ! ’’ and 
pressed him in a meek embrace, that he 
“ might rather feel than see the swelling of 
her heart.” And then she faded away from 
his arms, and her face became transfigured, 
and her voice like the voice of an angel in 
heaven ; — and he awoke, and was alone ! 

It was broad daylight ; and he heard the 
postilion and the stamping of horses’ hoofs 
on the pavement at the door. He did not 
dare to stay. But, throwing himself into the 
carriage, he cast one look towards the window 
of the Dark Ladie, and a moment afterwards 
had left her for ever I He had drunk the last 
drop of the bitter cup, and now laid the gold- 
en goblet gently down, knowing that he should 
behold it no more ! 

No more ! O, how majestically mournful 
are those words ! They sound like the roar 
of the wind through a forest of pines! 
















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